


Banking, The Old American Art

by WhyWouldIEver



Series: Flying Blind [3]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: An Outlaw Undercover, Arthur is put in a position where he has to be very passive and he Hates It, Bank Robbery, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Mild Humor, More like Interrupted Sex, Pre-Canon, Unresolved Sexual Tension, intentional sartorial anachronisms, over describing clothing but it's for the plot!, sorta?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:49:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25965397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhyWouldIEver/pseuds/WhyWouldIEver
Summary: Dutch and Hosea plan a bank robbery. They send Arthur in under disguise.-Inspired by the RDR2 missionAdvertising, The New American Art.
Relationships: John Marston/Arthur Morgan
Series: Flying Blind [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1762330
Comments: 33
Kudos: 76





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> While playing the mission [Advertising, The New American Art](https://youtu.be/wPKxta8LHEs?t=323), I found myself thinking, "I wonder what would make Arthur hate acting and dressing up for jobs as much as he does?” Other than it just not suiting his personality, I mean. So I have a bit of fun answering that question here, and I add in some in-game callbacks in reverse, if that makes any sense at all. It's all just a bit of silliness, really!
> 
> This story is already finished and I'll be posting one chapter every other day leading up to my birthday on Sunday! It's my own weird version of a birthday celebration since ol' Corona has made normal plans impossible this year. :D

It was the dead middle of autumn, the weather gloomy to match their mood, when the gang picked up stake in a hurry and got out of Dodge City, quite literally, about a week past. They rode hard across state lines and up into the northwest of the country after local law enforcement started snooping much too close for comfort. Their new location was unfamiliar territory, especially this close to winter when night turned a few shades too cold, bodies huddled up against the toasty fire in camp until it was time to tuck into bed and one by one people reluctantly moved to their tents and cots to bundle up under too-thin blankets.

Arthur woke up and set off every day to explore the local landscape and get a feel for the area as far as a half day’s journey could get him. A few days back he’d spotted a small pond and he’d finally found the time to head over again early that morning for a bout of fishing while Dutch and Hosea headed a few hours west of camp to scope out job prospects in a town over that way. He trots back on horseback by the afternoon, a line of freshly caught trout hanging off a saddlebag near his leg. As soon as his horse is hitched, brushed, and fed, Arthur makes his way immediately over to Pearson’s wagon to deposit his catch. He’s half-way there when he spots John clear across camp, nestled halfway behind a wagon, his legs the only thing visible as they’re strewn out with an ankle crossed over the top of the other looking like a cat lounging in the sun, soaking up the warmth of mid-day.

Arthur rolls his eyes, shakes his head, and sets the fish down on Pearson’s table.

“Thank you, Arthur,” Pearson says, half turning from the vegetables he’s cutting to add to the pot of stew cooking on the nearby fire.

“Sure." He turns from Pearson to walk off in John’s direction and rounds the wagon, towering over John where he’s sprawled in the long grass and casting a long shadow that blocks out the sun. “Hey, kitty,” he says and kicks the bottom of John’s boot with the tip of his own.

John lifts his hat from his face and shields his eyes with a hand as he looks up at Arthur, his eyes squinched tight as a feeble attempt to block the sun where it fans a halo of light around Arthur’s silhouette above him. “The hell?” he asks, voice scratchy like he’s just been woken up from a catnap.

“You really loungin’ in the sun like a house cat when there’s chores needs doin’?” He kicks the bottom of John’s boot again. “Get up, find something to do.”

“I’m workin’ on something,” he says and shifts to lean up on a forearm. 

“What is it?” Arthur asks, voice dripping skepticism at the possibility of another one of John’s hare-brained ideas that might see either of them sporting new injuries or running from the law for stealing a few sacks of vegetables from the local sheriff’s brother’s farm. Not that he has any experience in that or anything.

John scoffs and flops down on his back, plopping the hat over his eyes. “I ain’t tellin’ you so you can steal it out from under me.”

Arthur rolls his eyes and takes a step forward to stand next to John’s knee. “I don’t know why you think I wanna steal your five dollar pickpocket.” He crouches down, resting his elbows on his bent knees for balance. His lips pull up into the first traces of a smirk when John visibly bristles at his needling and whips the hat off his face again, brows already tilted down into a scowl.

“It’s not!”

But Arthur pays him no mind, just fists a hand into his shirt and yanks him into a half-sitting position, his fingers tightening as John unsuccessfully tries to pry his hand away. “I’ll tell you what,” he says, voice tipped low to reel John in. “You get the chores done around camp,” he grins when John immediately rolls his eyes, " _including_ helping Pearson and Grimshaw with the dishes and washing any clothes need washing...”

He trails off and loosens his grip on John’s shirt, flicking a glance around camp to check that no one is paying them any mind. Coast clear, he turns back and watches his own hand as he spreads his palm flat against John’s chest, slides it half down his front, the buttons tickling gently along his skin. “I’ll take you out somewhere quiet tomorrow.”

His eyes flick up to John’s, who is staring back with the faintest hint of red stained across his cheeks, _always so eager_. Arthur smiles at the thought, his lips quirked to the side, and moves his hand back up to rest higher on John’s chest, his heartbeat thumping into the palm of Arthur’s hand. “What do you say?” 

John licks his lips, drawing Arthur’s gaze, and they open to speak.

“Arthur!” Dutch’s voice calls out and Arthur rips his hand away and springs up to his feet. He glances back at John as he hears him huff a disappointed sigh, his upper body slumping back onto the hard ground. Arthur snorts under his breath, rolling his eyes, and steps away to circle back around the side of the wagon. He approaches Dutch and Hosea as they dismount their horses, and stops in front of them with his thumbs resting casually on his gun holster. “There you are, Arthur!” 

“Any leads?” Arthur asks. 

“Boys,” Dutch says, his voice projecting loud enough across the camp for everyone to hear. “Miss Grimshaw,” he tilts his head toward her in acknowledgment. “We,” he pauses dramatically, ever the storyteller, “are going to rob a bank.”

Arthur scoffs. “That’s it?” He shifts over a step as John walks up and comes to a stop next to him. He glances over at him briefly, then back to Dutch and Hosea. “Way you’re actin’, I was sure it were something bigger than robbin’ a bank. We rob banks all the time.”

Dutch smiles like he expected Arthur to say as much and is only too happy to use it as an opportunity to dissuade any doubt about the plan. “We have,” he nods. “A few hundred dollars, maybe a couple thousand on a really good day. But this one,” his voice dips conspiratorially, “is bigger than any bank we’ve robbed before.” He turns toward Hosea with an open gesture to invite him in to further sell the idea. “Hosea?”

“We were in town scoping out some possible leads, good places to hit, nothing outside of the usual,” he says and all eyes turn toward him. “But we just so happened to run into the mayor of the town. Isn’t that right, Dutch?” He grins as Dutch nods.

“That’s right. And our new friend, Mr. Mayor,” he says the word disdainfully. “Has some mighty ambitious plans of his own for the town. He wants to, how did he put it, Hosea?”

“He wants to build a _great spire_ of civilization.”

“Ah, yes!” Dutch claps his hands together. “A great spire of civilization.” His voice practically oozes, his hatred for anything to do with civilization well-documented and vocalized. “He calls it the new great hidden gem of the west. And it just so happens that our ambitious Mr. Mayor has lured in an old Southern plantation family with the promise of returning them to their former glory.”

“So we’re gonna rob the family?” Bill asks. “I thought you said we was robbin’ a bank?”

“We are,” Hosea says. He walks over to the table nearby and takes a seat. “Mayor Newberry also spoke a merry tale of hiring a fancy banker all the way from New York City to oversee the town’s new bank. One of the first certified banks in the state, a fact he was very pleased to go on about at length. I suppose he wants to project an air of professionalism to attract more rich families. He said he’d hired this fancy banker without ever even meeting him. Mr. Underhill, he called him. They’ve only corresponded by mail.” Hosea smirks up at Dutch. “It just so happens that he’s arriving by stagecoach the day after tomorrow.” He pauses, his eyes flicking from one man to the next as he engages in a bit of his own theatrics, attracting the gang to the story like bees to pollen. “And we’re going to kidnap him.”

“Kidnap him?” Arthur asks. He stares between Dutch and Hosea trying to determine the approach. “Why? Why not just rob ‘em all like normal?”

“Because, my dear boy,” Dutch says, and he places a hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “This family he talked about won’t be here for at least another week. We need to buy ourselves some time. This is our _in_.” He releases Arthur’s shoulder and looks around at everyone else. “Trust me,” he says. “I have a plan.”

  


* * *

  


Apparently, step one of Dutch’s great plan is for _Arthur_ to do the kidnapping. The banker, a Mr. Underhill, is expected to leave the town of Rye in the morning and his arrival at the supposed _Great Western Hidden Gem_ of Ridgedale will follow the day after that. Arthur’s job is to stop the stagecoach and apprehend Mr. Underhill with no one the wiser that he’s even been kidnapped.

So Arthur gets to sleep early that night after hashing out some minor details with Dutch and Hosea. He wakes at dawn and after a quick cup of too-hot coffee, he packs up a few guns, some food for the road, and anything else he thinks he might need for the day while he scopes out the best place to hit the coach.

He’s tacking up his horse when John walks over, fully dressed like he’s heading out, too. “The hell are you going?” Arthur asks, staring in sleepy-eyed confusion as John loads up the saddlebags on his own horse.

“I’m coming with you,” John says, and he tilts his jaw up stubbornly.

“The hell you are,” Arthur scoffs.

“You need someone on your six.”

“I don’t need a damn thing, now get.” He climbs up into his saddle preparing to set off.

“Arthur!” Hosea jogs over then turns to look at John quizzically. “John, why are you up?”

“He thinks I need someone on _my six_ ,” Arthur snorts, his voice mocking. Hosea’s face blossoms into one of consideration, his brain working in that way it does, and Arthur holds up his hands to stave off Hosea’s next words when he turns to scrutinize John where he stands.

“Actually, that’s not a bad idea,” Hosea murmurs.

“No, it’s a terrible idea. I work better alone.”

“Of course you do,” Hosea says, dismissively. He pats Arthur’s leg where it rests in the stirrup. “But John could use the practice on a job with fewer people.” He nods his head as if that’s decided. “Yeah, I think that’s a good idea. Take John with you, let him help out however you best see fit.”

John bursts into action. He finishes saddling his horse and climbs up ready to leave, his satchel across his shoulder and gun holstered at his hip. Arthur rolls his eyes as he realizes that John’s probably been up and ready to force his way on the job before Arthur had even been awake yet.

“Now,” Hosea says, “Don’t forget it's just a kidnapping, don’t hurt him.”

“Well, gee, Hosea. I was thinkin’ I was just gon’ blow his legs off and be done with the whole thing.” 

Hosea’s lip curls sarcastically. “Cute. Bring him back to camp so we can figure out exactly how to approach the rest of Dutch’s plan.”

“I got it.”

“Good. Now you two watch each other’s backs.”

Arthur and John ride out of camp, turning east on the road in the direction of the town of Rye.

“You little shit,” Arthur says, his voice carrying over his shoulder to John where he rides tandem. “If I didn’t know you to be the biggest fool I ever met, I’d swear you planned that.”

John just shrugs, expression and body language giving nothing away. They ride in silence for a while, passing by giant fields of grass turning yellow as the season changes, their horses avoiding the scurrying of animals beneath their hooves. “I did all them chores, y’know…”

“Yeah, I’ll bet you did,” Arthur says, turning his head to flick a little smirk at John. “Now come on, we gotta find where we wanna get this done.”

  


* * *

  


It’s afternoon when Arthur and John first see the stagecoach on the horizon. They’re crouched down on the top of a hill to the side of the road, enough boulders around to hide behind until they make their jump, or if a gunfight breaks out. Arthur shakes his head a little to himself. Knowing hot-headed little Johnny and his penchant for reacting before he takes a half-second to think, that’s a higher possibility than Arthur cares to admit. 

“Now you listen to me,” Arthur says, his voice quiet even with the coach still a distance away. He turns his head to stare John down. “I’m gonna stop the coach, I’ll take out the driver. If there’s a guard on back then you deal with him. If there are guards on horses we’ll take them out, too. Keep cover behind a boulder. Soon as that’s done, we gotta get to Mr. Underhill. We clear?” John nods. “Good. Now stay down. You don’t fire until after I do. I’m gonna get down closer to the road.”

Arthur half crouches-half slides down the hill, his boots scraping on the dirt beneath his feet, and takes his place behind the largest boulder near the road. He stands there waiting with his rifle in hand as the wheels of the coach grow louder and louder.

With a deep breath to steady himself, Arthur steps out from behind the boulder, raises his rifle and shoots clear between the eyes of the driver before he has any time to react. The horses spook, kicking up in a panic, and Arthur whips himself aside as they run by and then veer off the road. He turns and bolts after the wayward wagon, his boots digging into the ground as he runs as fast as he can chasing after the runaway horses. 

“Shit,” Arthur hears John shout followed by the sound of him scrabbling down toward the road and running after both Arthur and the stagecoach.

The horses slow as they start running up a nearby hill, the weight of the coach a bit too much for them to maintain their panicked pace. Arthur and John come to a skidding stop alongside the horses, both panting to catch their breath. The door to the coach opens and John is the first to raise his gun as a man dressed like he’s headed for something fancy, his clothes all finely tailored and expensive-looking, steps a hurried foot down on the ground. He skitters about as he absorbs the carnage, rather unconcerned with the gun pointed at him as far as Arthur wagers. 

“Good god, sir,” the man exclaims, his eyes wild. He brings a hand up to rest against his chest in shock, breathing small panicked breaths. “You shot him.” He walks the few steps to the driver’s seat and stares up at the body slumped over, the driver’s massacred face enough to make the blood drain from his own. “He’s dead.”

“Now that’s stating the obvious, Mr. Underhill,” Arthur says. He smiles cruelly when Underhill startles at his name, his eyes flicking back and forth between Arthur and John. “Is that really all the security you got? A driver too dumb to have his gun restin’ in his lap? Or at least on the goddamn seat next to him.”

Mr. Underhill stands there, mouth working but no words coming out. 

Assessing Mr. Underhill’s threat level as non-existent, Arthur turns to John. “You hogtie him, I’ll get rid of this idiot,” he points to the dead driver with a thumb over his shoulder. “I’ll drive the coach, you get the horses.”

As Arthur climbs up next to the driver to yank his body off the seat, he sees John grab Mr. Underhill by the shoulder and turn him around, John’s rope already in his hands. He shoves at Mr. Underhill, trying to force him to the ground.

“Wait, wait, wait!” Mr. Underhill cries, voice shrill. “This is an imported Italian silk custom-tailored suit!”

John’s eyes flick to Arthur’s, his expression reading loud and clear _can you believe this guy_? “So?” He shoves on Mr. Underhill’s shoulders a little harder.

“So,” Mr. Underhill emphasizes the word as he shakes John’s hands off. “I won’t have you ruining such fine craftsmanship! If you must ‘hogtie’ me then so be it, but I will get on my knees inside the carriage. You will not push me to the dirt!” He storms over to the open door of the stagecoach and settles on his knees on top of the carpet inside, thrusting his wrists in an x crossed behind himself.

With another look of disbelief on his face when he glances up at Arthur, John walks up and hogties Mr. Underhill with no trouble. As soon as the ropes are cinched tight, Mr. Underhill declares, “You’ll have to help me into the carriage then, I don’t think I can find the leverage to do it myself in this position.”

So John lifts him to his feet out of the coach and maneuvers him onto the bench inside.

“Shut the drapes,” Arthur says as John clambers back out. “Don’t want anyone to see inside if they pass by. Should probably gag him while you’re at it.”

“Now that’s not necess—“ Mr. Underhill starts, his voice haughty, but he’s silenced to a muffle when John stuffs his bandana into his mouth and ties it around his head. John shuts the door once he’s outside and he and Arthur whistle for their horses. Arthur lifts the bloodied corpse onto his shoulder and tosses it in a nearby bush.

  


* * *

  


The ride to camp is uneventful and they’re back before nightfall. Arthur pulls the coach up into the clearing and jumps down while John hitches their horses.

“He’s quite a character,” Arthur calls to Dutch and Hosea as they walk over. “And a fool.” He opens the door and yanks Mr. Underhill out by the front of his clothes, ignoring the glare sent his way. “Weren’t a single guard protectin’ him.”

“Is that so?” Dutch asks, voice tinged with amusement.

Mr. Underhill’s voice muffles from behind John’s bandana where it’s still shoved in his mouth.

“What’s that?” Arthur asks, a mockery of concern. “I can’t hear you.” 

“Now Arthur, is that any way to treat our _esteemed guest_?” The insincerity is loud and clear in Dutch's tone as he steps forward to pull out the gag out. “You were saying, sir?”

“I haven’t anything worth stealing,” Underhill says, his back standing straight and proud. “Why would I need guards?”

“He’s sure got a lot of luggage for a man who ain’t got nothin’ worth stealin’,” John says from where he’s leaned against the coach. He gestures vaguely to the trunks on the top and back.

“Those are my clothes!”

“John, Bill,” he shouts in Bill’s direction where he’s lounging lazily near a tree. “Get ‘em unloaded. Let’s see if Mr. Underhill is telling the truth.” He turns toward Arthur. “You get him tied up in my tent and ready for a little chat with Hosea and myself. We need to flesh out the details on our plan.”

“You know what I’ve decided?” Mr. Underhill declares, forcing himself calm when he’s slung over Arthur’s shoulder. “I have decided not to worry about any of this. If you wanted me dead,” his voice rises as Arthur flops him down onto a chair. “I’d already be so. And if I survive, this will be but a great story I can tell people at dinner parties. The day I was kidnapped by outlaws and they ransacked my custom-tailored clothes for ungodly purposes.”

Arthur stands there staring blankly at Mr. Underhill, then snorts with a shake of his head. “You are strange,” he says. He ties Underhill’s hands to the arms of the chair and stands up straight, staring down at him. “‘Fraid it’ll be longer than a day though. But you ain’t as dumb as you look, Mister.”

“No he isn’t, Arthur,” Hosea says, stepping into Dutch’s tent. “We have no wish to kill you, sir. We only wish to use you to rob a bank.”

Underhill’s face pales. 

“Yes, your bank, I’m afraid,” Hosea pulls over a chair and takes a seat next to him. “But don’t worry, you’ll be found as an escaped hostage at the end. Then you can live the rest of your days fabricating all sorts of death-defying details at your dinner parties.” He pats Mr. Underhill’s hand where it’s tied to the chair. “So long as you refrain from causing _us_ any trouble.” He turns toward Arthur, momentarily dismissing Mr. Underhill. “Thank you, Arthur.”

  


* * *

  


The next few hours Dutch, Hosea, and occasionally Mr. Underhill's voices can be heard talking inside the tent. The rest of the camp go about their own business, for the most part, only listening in if a voice rises on the air. Arthur eats a bowl of stew around the campfire then starts up a game of poker with John, Bill, and their newest and most useless member, Uncle. He’s losing terribly after an hour, annoyed every time John flashes him pleased, mocking grins when he wins yet another hand and takes more of Arthur’s chips.

The four of them all turn toward Dutch’s tent as a small, heated discussion breaks out. Arthur tosses his worthless set of cards on the table and decides to head over to see what’s what, followed closely behind by John to the snarky disappointment of the two men still sitting at the table. As Arthur walks up to the tent’s entrance he hears the tail end of Hosea imploring Dutch, “I really think he’s the best fit…”

“Who’s the best fit for what?” Arthur asks, stepping inside. He shifts over to give John room beside him, a near-constant presence on his right side these days.

“Hosea,” Dutch says, turning in his chair to look at Arthur. His gaze is assessing in a way that sets off an alarm in Arthur’s head, “Thinks _you_ are the ‘best fit’ to pose as Mr. Underhill.”

Arthur laughs, his face sliding into a look of amused disbelief. “What?”

“I really do, Dutch,” Hosea says. “Look at him.” He lifts a hand and gestures in Arthur’s direction then turns back to Mr. Underhill. He leans over and makes quick work of the rope tying Underhill to the chair. “Stand up,” he directs. “Arthur, you stand next to Mr. Underhill.”

Mr. Underhill stands, rubbing at his sore wrists and sneers at Arthur as he walks over with a disbelieving shake of his head. Arthur turns and stands there shoulder to shoulder with Mr. Underhill while Dutch and Hosea study them like they’re a puzzle only missing a few select pieces that will make a whole picture.

“You see,” Hosea waves a hand to encompass the two of them. “He _works_.”

Dutch’s gaze connects with Arthur’s, staring intensely for a moment, then drops down to flick back and forth between Arthur and Mr. Underhill, still assessing, examining the truth of whatever idea Hosea has concocted. 

A weird type of panic begins bubbling around in Arthur’s gut at the idea of posing like Mr. Underhill of all people for who even knows how long. “You can’t be serious.”

“You have nearly the same build, Arthur,” Hosea says. He walks up to Arthur and forces him to stand straight with his hands on Arthur’s shoulders. “Similar height,” he mumbles to himself. “His clothes will fit Arthur better than anyone else here. Although, they might be a bit snug in places,” he grins as he turns back toward Dutch. “John’s too skinny,” he gestures vaguely at John, whose nose crinkles in offense. “Bill or Pearson?” he laughs. “No, it has to be Arthur.”

Dutch stands there, a finger held to his chin as he nods, slowly absorbing the idea. “I think you might be right, old friend,” he says. “Arthur, go get Miss Grimshaw, have her help you get in some of Mr. Underhill’s clothes.”

Arthur speechlessly stares back and forth between them like they’ve lost their damn minds. He looks at Mr. Underhill, taking in the absurd outfit he’s wearing, all soft, expensive fabrics and bright colors, and grimaces.

“Arthur,” Dutch says. “Go.”

He sighs but turns to walk out of the tent with a hard shoulder check against John, irritated by the delighted little smirk plastered on his face, which Arthur thinks he might punch away as soon as he’s done proving this is a terrible idea. “Miss Grimshaw,” he says as he walks up behind her. “Dutch and Hosea want you to help me into some of Mr. Underhill’s clothes.”

She turns and gawks at him, her eyes glancing to Mr. Underhill where he’s getting tied to the chair in Dutch’s tent again, and then back to Arthur. “Well, alright then.” She shakes her head. “Come on.”

  


* * *

  


She sets up a makeshift changing area alongside one of their wagons, Mr. Underhill’s luggage trunks opened and clothes spilling out of each of them. She grabs garments here and there, holding them up to Arthur as she mumbles to herself. 

Arthur stands there feeling like a useless idiot.

“What do you think about this shirt?” she asks him and holds it up to his shoulders.

He looks down. It’s sort of shiny, like silk or satin or something otherwise expensive that he doesn’t know the name for. A light blue color and high in the collar, fancier and more delicate than anything Arthur would ever choose to wear for himself. He curls a lip in distaste. “I don’t know. Just pick somethin’.”

She sighs, shakes her head, and tosses it back into one of the trunks. She rustles around in another for a little while until she stands back up to her feet. “Let’s try this. Get your shirt and pants off, then we’ll get you in these clothes.”

They make pretty quick work of it, much faster together than if Arthur had been trying to do up the tiny, fiddly buttons on his own. He’s scared to even touch the clothes, worried the roughness of his hands will snag and ruin the delicate fabric.

“Well,” she says. She’s staring at Arthur with a hand placed over her mouth, and he can already tell she’s trying to hold back a laugh. He sighs as he looks down at the ridiculous outfit he’s found himself in. A dark purple shirt, in velvet of all things, tucked into tan knee-length breeches like something from decades gone by. Arthur’s union suit sticks out underneath from knee to ankle, clearly not how they’re intended to be worn together. Miss Grimshaw had selected the only black jacket to be found in any of the trunks, embroidered in gold filigree down the front alongside the buttons and along the cuffs on the sleeves. Arthur’s shoulders feel constricted, too broad inside the tailored jacket. He stands there staring back hopelessly at Miss Grimshaw as she tries to recover herself. “Well,” she says again, clearing her throat. “Let’s just get you out there.” She places her hands on his shoulders, turns him around, and guides him out where everyone is waiting.

Arthur keeps his eyes trained to the dirt in front of his feet, every muscle in his body tense like the moments spent waiting to draw before a duel. Miss Grimshaw marches him over to Dutch’s tent with her hands gripped tight on his shoulders like she can sense he wants to bolt like a spooked horse. Everyone is waiting around like a group of gossiping ladies and when he finally dares look up the first thing he sees is John sitting at a table across from Hosea, and Arthur scowls at the look on his face. “You laugh at me and you’ll be shittin’ teeth, Marston,” Arthur growls. 

John sticks his hands up defensively, shaking his head as if to say _I’d never_ , but the laugh is loud and clear for Arthur to read all over his face.

“Well—” Dutch begins. He clears his throat, rolls his lips in along his teeth as he tries not to laugh.

“No, no, no, no, no!” Mr. Underhill interrupts from the chair. “You cannot go into town looking like that!”

Arthur’s scowl grows even deeper on his face, embarrassment burning on his cheeks. “They’re _your_ clothes,” he says, his teeth gritted tight.

“Yes, but if you show up in that outfit they’ll laugh me out of town and I’ll be jobless, a laughing stock from here back to New York!” Mr. Underhill exclaims, his voice rising higher the more heated he gets. “None of those pieces work together at all! Your union suit is showing!” He sounds like he’s about to faint from apoplectic rage at the idea of Arthur desecrating his wardrobe. “Breeches are meant to be worn with stockings, for Heaven’s sake! Where is the attention to detail?”

“That’s what you’re worried about? I look like a goddamn idiot.”

“Yes, you do.” Mr. Underhill sighs like he’s the most put upon soul on the entire planet. “You look like a fool because you _feel_ like a fool. Nevermind that you haven’t chosen anything that works together whatsoever! That outfit is wearing _you_.”

“What the hell does that even mean?”

“Untie me,” Mr. Underhill says. He sighs, annoyed, when Bill steps forward to loom over him in a way meant to intimidate and threaten him into compliance. “Untie me so I may help you. You cannot show up dressed like that, no one will believe you! I can promise you that. I’ll help you, I swear it.” His eyes flick from staring up at Bill in disgust and over to Arthur standing there cluelessly. “Keep a gun nearby if you’re so worried. But if you show up tomorrow dressed that poorly, _no one_ will believe it.” His point made, he tilts his head in the air like a haughty aristocrat displeased with his company.

Arthur turns toward Hosea, hands gesturing vaguely in a helpless way.

“Alright,” Hosea says. “You help Arthur, Miss Grimshaw will be right there with a shotgun should you try anything funny.”

“And put an end to any juicy details for my dinner party stories?” Mr. Underhill jokes half-heartedly. “I’d never.”

So Mr. Underhill, Arthur, and Miss Grimshaw head back to the makeshift dressing room, which is really just a couple blankets pinned up around one of their wagons to give the illusion of privacy, a lantern hooked on a post, and Arthur stands there feeling strangely exhausted by the whole thing while Mr. Underhill buzzes around like a fly. He pulls clothes out of trunks, talking to himself all the while much the same as Miss Grimshaw had before. Sometimes he’ll look back at Arthur and absorb some detail only he can see before turning around to paw through his clothes some more.

It takes longer than feels necessary before Mr. Underhill has chosen all he finds suitable for Arthur to wear and he soon finds himself dressed in a white shirt with billowing sleeves at the wrist like a swashbuckler from a pirate book. The pants Mr. Underhill chooses are ankle length this time, much to Arthur’s relief, but the rise is much higher than normal, cinching tight high up on Arthur’s waist, and Arthur suddenly finds himself sympathizing with any woman stuck in a corset. The pants are held up with suspenders that are shorter than any he’s ever seen before. 

“A customized length of my own choosing to better fit the rise on the trouser. Genius, no?” Mr. Underhill smiles, pleased at his own supposed brilliance. He ignores Arthur’s protests when he chooses a white tie with more ruffles than Arthur thinks is warranted. One ruffle really being too much. “It’s called a jabot,” Underhill sniffs, voice haughty. He fastens it around Arthur’s neck and then steps back to admire his handiwork. “Now, you’ll need to wear a vest and jacket when you arrive tomorrow, just for propriety’s sake as far as introductions go, and I think the black one from earlier will work just fine in this instance. The matching velvet vest pairs well with it, too. But normally, I would not wear either garment with these trousers as the intent is to show off the waist and draw attention. Some people find it quite scandalous, which I find very funny indeed. People are often so uptight, don’t you think?” 

Arthur just stands there, baffled that a man could talk so much about clothes with nary a pause to breathe while Mr. Underhill finishes brushing away and straightening little imperfections that only he can see and then Arthur is marched over to stand in front of everyone, once again on display and feeling like the world’s biggest moron. The clothes are restrictive in ways he’s not used to, the tie—or _jabot_ , Christ—cinched tight around his neck, and the pants leaving nothing to the imagination around his thighs. He’s not even sure he’ll be able to sit down without ripping a seam. But Mr. Underhill seems pleased with his choices if his face is anything to go by. The man looks like he gets aroused by his own clothing whether it’s on his own body or not.

Arthur shakes his head in disbelief. He looks up and catches John’s eye again, but there ain’t a laugh on his face this time. Arthur quirks an eyebrow as their eyes connect across the expanse between them and John shrugs as if to say _well, what’re you gonna do_? His eyes tip a slow path down Arthur’s body that has Arthur fighting back a blush, a muddle of emotions. 

He turns toward Mr. Underhill again. “Well,” Underhill says with a curt nod. “Take a walk around, let everyone see.”

Arthur sighs, his head tilting back and eyes closing as he gathers himself against the absurd situation he’s found himself in. But he walks from next to Mr. Underhill to his own tent and back, turning around to face everyone again.

“It’s still not right,” Hosea murmurs to himself. He has his eyes trained on Arthur like he can solve the problem like a mathematical equation.

“That’s because he walks like a horse’s ass without a head to see,” Mr. Underhill sneers. He turns toward Arthur with a look of disgust on his face. “You cannot walk that way. You must own the role. Remember, _you_ are wearing the clothes, the clothes shouldn’t wear you.”

“I still don’t know what that means,” Arthur grumbles under his breath.

Mr. Underhill rolls his eyes. “Watch me,” he says and walks the same path that Arthur had taken. When he’s standing next to Arthur again he turns with a flourish, “You see? I walk with confidence. Maturity.” He looks Arthur up and down as if he’s judging what’s underneath the clothing. “Dignity,” he scoffs, like he could never see Arthur walk the same way. Arthur nods his head in agreement with that unspoken assessment.

“Look,” Mr. Underhill continues. He grabs Arthur’s shoulders to prod him into standing straight. “You need to walk with good posture, not like an ape between evolutionary cycles.”

“What?” Arthur asks, voice rough like he knows he should be offended, but he’s confused.

“Walk with your back straight, standing tall,” Underhill sighs, annoyed. “When you walk into a room, you must appear to everyone who sees you like you are at peace with both yourself and your place in the world. You must assume the role or people will see right through you.”

The next few hours, going well into the night, are full of Mr. Underhill philosophizing about the proper way to present one’s self to the public at large and then trying to show Arthur how to best achieve that in the short time they have to learn it.

Most of it goes over his head if he’s being honest. He really just mimics walking with a straight back, head held high, and a slight bounce in his step. It’s, well. It’s the dumbest he’s ever felt. Like he’s stuffed himself in a shell that doesn’t fit. But Dutch and Hosea seem pleased enough about it, and Mr. Underhill’s stopped thwacking him hard on the back like everything about his life and Arthur’s presence in it is taking a mental toll, kidnapping be damned. 

But then Underhill goes in on the way he speaks and it’s another couple hours of the most bizarre lessons Arthur has ever had the displeasure of living through. 

“You talk like you gargle with rocks, then follow it up with whiskey until your throat has burned to a crisp,” Mr. Underhill informs him. “Half of my appeal for Mayor Newberry is his desire for the town to appear worldly and modern. That’s why he hired me. If you walk in talking like a cowboy, he’ll think me a fraud. Therefore, he’ll think _you_ a fraud.”

Arthur just heaves a sigh, shakes his head, and does as instructed, trying to alter the way he speaks in a way that will please Mr. Underhill enough. He feels like a fool.


	2. Chapter 2

Arthur wakes late the next morning feeling absolutely exhausted from the absurdity of events the previous evening. He stares up at the canopy ceiling of his tent with dread bubbling in his gut at the horrifying prospect of his life for the next stretch of time, sure that he’ll crash and burn like a train running off an unfinished track. He gets dressed in his own clothes the minute he’s off of his cot and refuses to put on the outfit that Mr. Underhill chose for his arrival into Ridgedale later that day.

As soon as it’s time to get ready, he walks like a man to the gallows toward Mr Underhill and a shotgun-wielding Miss Grimshaw where they stand waiting to help him get dressed at the wagon. They help Arthur into the outfit Underhill selected the night before, this time with the accompanying vest and jacket in all their custom-tailored glory, and then force on what Arthur thinks is an absurd amount of jewelry and accessories for any man who regularly wields a gun. 

Once he's buttoned up in the clothing, Arthur stares blankly as Underhill shoves a razor into his hands. “You need to shave, unkempt grizzly man.” He starts pawing at Arthur’s head. “And we simply must do something about your hair!”

Arthur has mostly checked out of the entire process by that point. Ready to get on with it, get it over with, and never have to wear anything like it ever again. Or walk that way ever again. Or talk. Yeah, he weren’t ever doin’ anything like this again. The take better be _great_.

He’s heading toward the stagecoach with Bill as his designated driver, feeling imprisoned in the outfit with a freshly shaved face and pomaded hair when he spots John sitting at the same table as the night before, his eyes fixed on Arthur. John’s eyes lift to his and he smirks with a parting salute. Arthur climbs inside the stagecoach with a scowl and slams the door shut.

  


* * *

  


The ride to Ridgedale is too quick for Arthur, even though it takes a couple hours yet. Bill pulls the stagecoach up in front of the very obviously newly built bank, the columns standing proud on either side of the entrance like something out of an old European city rather than a town in the new frontier. Bill opens the coach door with a flourish, bowing as Arthur steps out, “Mr. Underhill,” he says with a mocking laugh under his breath.

Before Arthur can react, an older man in his mid-40s walks out of the bank entrance with a young lady on his arm followed closely by two harried-looking staff who stand at attention a few feet behind the pair. 

“Mr. Underhill!” the man exclaims, excitement in his voice. He pauses, staring for a few moments. “You are Mr. Underhill, yes?”

“Yeah?” Arthur says, voice gruff, then remembers himself. He clears his throat with a hand politely held to his mouth. “Excuse me,” he says, putting on the warm, velvet-like voice Mr. Underhill instructed him to use. “Yes, I’m Mr. Underhill.”

“Fantastic!” the man says, extending a hand for Arthur to shake. “I’m the Mayor of Ridgedale. You may call me Mayor Newberry,” his chest puffs with pride and it takes everything within Arthur to hold back a disgusted sneer that a man so pleased with himself always evokes. Newberry gestures at the lady on his arm, “This is my wife, Mrs. Newberry.”

“Charmed,” Arthur says, smiling with a kind expression fastened to his face. She returns his smile as she looks him up from head to toe in a way Arthur feels too closely resembles the way John had looked at him earlier that day. He blushes at the thought, surprised she’ll stand right there next to her husband and eye Arthur like he’s candy she desperately wants to taste.

“Now, now! Let’s say we get on with introducing you to our bustling, growing town!” Newberry snaps his fingers at the two men standing behind himself. “You two, take Mr. Underhill’s luggage next door.” He turns and walks back into the bank with Mrs. Newberry, leaving Arthur to follow behind.

“Good luck, Mr. Underhill,” Bill says to his back. Arthur turns his head to glare at him and gets nothing more than a sarcastic tip of Bill’s hat in response.

Arthur inhales a deep breath through his nose and walks up the steps into the bank. 

The interior isn’t really what he was expecting if he had a thought to expect anything at all. There’s a high desk right in the middle of the room facing the door so it’s the first thing you see upon entering, and plush looking chairs strewn about surrounded by little tables with lamps on them like it’s a gentlemen’s club rather than a bank. He comes to a stop behind Mayor Newberry, who’s in the middle of waxing poetic about the exact type of wood on the floor or the price of the marble columns that welcome you to the entrance of the bank outside, sounding absolutely pleased with himself.

“We’re 1800 citizens strong in this town,” Mayor Newberry boasts out of nowhere, smarmy as any other man with delusions of grandeur. He soon leads Arthur back outside for a walk around town with Mrs. Newberry still on his arm. He points out other establishments or people he finds notable, greets a couple of men and introduces Arthur, or rather, _Mr. Underhill_. 

“Yes, yes. All the way from New York. He’s the very best in the business, or so I’m told. And Ridgedale deserves nothing but the very best,” Mayor Newberry grins. Arthur can’t help thinking that the country’s been wasting time diggin’ for oil when there’s a free supply pouring forth from Newberry’s mouth anytime he speaks. He stands there, all blank polite smiles while trying to avoid the blatant wandering eye of Mrs. Newberry, when with another shake of hands with the men, Mayor Newberry sets them off on more of the tour.

They pass by a clock tower in the direction of a large house further down the road. “Mrs. Newberry’s father is an avid admirer of clock towers. Isn’t that right, my sweet?”

“Mhm,” she says, and it’s only too obvious to anyone using their eyes and ears that she’s bored, but Mayor Newberry seems completely oblivious as he prattles on. 

“Her father was the town’s most respected Doctor back home so I persuaded him to join us here in Ridgedale. I had the clock tower built as a gift for him. It was a little on the pricey side,” he grins with a wink. “But anything to make him feel at home! He’s set up a practice here in town and is most respected by the citizens of Ridgedale.”

Arthur nods, longing for a cigarette. They come to a stop outside a wrought iron fence that encloses a huge, manicured garden more suitable for a wealthy neighborhood back east than a house in a new town in the west where civilization means to sink its claws. The house itself is grand, clearly meant to draw attention, staking a claim as the residence of someone who thinks himself very important.

“I believe the residence of the Mayor should set the tone for the city. Wouldn't you agree, Mr. Underhill?” Newberry asks as a servant walks forward and opens the gate to the garden.

“Sure.” They walk along a brick pathway lined with blooming flowers on either side, some bushes cut into defined shapes set just behind them. The garden screams of money poorly spent, distasteful in Arthur’s estimation, but exactly what he already expects from Newberry having only known him about an hour or so.

Newberry goes on and on about the gardens, well into detail Arthur doesn’t care to hear or remember. As they reach the front steps of the house, Mrs. Newberry makes her excuses and parts ways with Arthur and her husband. “Do come visit me anytime, Mr. Underhill,” she says, a smile perched on her lips. “I would love to get better acquainted.” 

So Arthur and Newberry carry on with the rest of the tour and it’s after sunset by the time Newberry leads Arthur to Mr. Underhill’s new home, having taken him around the house meant for the Smith family upon their arrival, followed by a stop at the Sheriff’s office. It had taken everything within Arthur not to smile wolfishly as Mayor Newberry had exulted, “We’ve had no issues with outlaws since we hired Sheriff Teague!” Arthur had forced an impressed smile to his lips and congratulated both men for such a job well done.

Mr. Underhill’s house just so happens to be the smaller building right next to the bank, which Newberry seems terribly pleased with himself over. “That way you’re right there should the bank ever need you!” Newberry says, and Arthur feels a twinge of pity for Mr. Underhill’s upcoming life. Just a little bit. But then he feels the restrictive cinch of the jabot around his throat and the pity puffs out like cigarette smoke.

Newberry hands over the key and leaves Arthur to it, promising to stop by the bank in the morning for a more in-depth tour of the facilities before Arthur is to start his—or Mr. Underhill’s—new job.

Arthur steps inside and shuts the door behind himself, leans back, and thunks his head hard against the wood. He looks around the furnished front room and eyes up the trunks placed in a stack alongside the sofa. An itch works its way up his spine and he’s suddenly desperate to get out of the clothing he’s been imprisoned inside of all day long, sweating ever since the sun hit the middle of the sky, cool autumn weather be damned. He walks over to the trunks and starts opening them one by one, looking for something comfortable to wear around the house.

He comes up empty because of course he does. Why would a man as peacockish as Mr. Underhill be willing to wear anything approaching comfortable? He sighs, frustrated, and decides _to hell with it_. He strips down to his union suit, fully intent on walking around the tiny house in nothing but until he has to come up with another ludicrous outfit for the next day.

He searches the trunks for his satchel hidden under a pile of clothes and walks into the bedroom then flops down on the bed and leans his back against the headboard, pawing around in his satchel for a pack of cigarettes and matches. He lights the tip and inhales a huge breathful of smoke, relief and pleasure buzzing along his skin as he looks out into the empty room. Leaving the cigarette pursed between his lips to puff on at his leisure, he pulls his journal out and flicks to the next empty page.

_Dutch and Hosea’s latest job has led me into a situation the likes I never seen before. For the next week or more I am to assume the identity of a city boy all the way from New York. A man so ridiculous in dress and manner that I am unsure whether I will come out the end unscathed. The local mayor is an idiot of the highest order, a man so involved with himself he cannot see that his own wife flirts with other men right in front of him. I am sure she will be a problem for me but as of yet, I do not know when._

_I just hope all this is worth it._

  


* * *

  


The next morning, Arthur wakes and hovers over the opened trunks, another cigarette between his lips to calm his nerves while he selects the first outfit of his own creation. He chooses a pair of cream-colored pants, peculiarly fastened with a line of buttons down the side of each leg, and tighter against Arthur’s skin when he slips them on than is comfortable. The jacket is a waist-length bright purple monstrosity, golden buttons to match those on the pants running along the front, and long tails on the back. The shirt is, he guesses, meant to be a complementary shade of purple, the sleeves of which end with lace ruffles that stick out of the cuffs of the jacket and will surely tickle along his hands all day. He slips on the vest he finds in one of the trunks, a matching embroidered flower print to go along with the jacket, and fastens a black tie around his throat, tucked and secured into the vest with a stickpin in the center. He leaves off the only purple hat he can find, too much decoration around the brim for his comfort.

He stands there in front of the floor-length mirror when he's done, staring at his reflection in disgust. “Just look at you, big dumb moron,” he sneers. He turns away quickly, having seen enough, and adds some pomade to his hair, refuses to shave yet, then steps outside and heads to the bank next door where Newberry already stands waiting.

“Mr. Underhill,” he calls. “Come, come.” He turns and unlocks the door to the bank, then walks inside first. Arthur is still as surprised by the opulence of the bank as he was the day before, the town not really warranting such a thing. He follows Newberry around inside, taking in the large windows facing out toward the cobblestone road that cuts straight down the middle of town so the bank is the first thing to catch your eye. He’s led downstairs to the vault and that’s when he really pays attention for the first time that morning. It’s bright inside from a few chandeliers hanging along the ceiling and the sconces on the walls reflecting light on the marble floor beneath his feet. The doors of each safe are painted what he assumes is meant to be a luxurious looking red and gold. 

“I want only the very best security in this town, Mr. Underhill,” Newberry says, pointing to the row of safes. “You’ll recall from some of my letters that the Smith family is old money back home.” Arthur nods as if he has any clue what he’s talking about, other than the brief bits he’d heard from Dutch and Hosea. “I knew them as a child growing up, and I did so admire them. They were a great family before the war, well-respected and admired by all in the region, and I think they could reclaim that greatness once more out here.” He leans in toward Arthur, his voice lowering like they’re not the only two people in the building. “I’m hoping that they will attract more families of the same stature.” He leans back and smiles proudly. “First Mrs. Newberry’s father, next the Smiths, and not too much longer Ridgedale will be a magnificent destination for many other wealthy families, don’t you think?” 

He gestures for Arthur to exit the vault before him as he discusses more details at length about the bank. More than Arthur ever cared to know. By lunch, he’s overwhelmed by all the things he’s expected to do for the local townsfolk. “Clients,” Newberry insists. “We want to attract _clients_.” Administration, bills, and loans. Deposits, transfers, and more. Arthur sighs as he realizes he’s going to be working a lot over the next little while. Mr. Underhill should be thanking the gang for the time away.

Newberry invites Arthur over for lunch at his house that afternoon, and with no good excuse to say no, he accepts. The house is every bit as ostentatious inside as Arthur expected given what he already knows about the man. The dining room in particular appears to be decorated to capacity. Dark wooden furniture is placed all around the room with expensive-looking pieces on nearly every open flat surface, the paintings on the walls are encased in golden frames, and the table itself stands strong and proud in the middle, tufted chairs dotted around the edge. It’s the room people will see the most, he assumes. He rolls his eyes and thinks about robbing a few bits just to stick it to the asshole, but decides against risking the bank job for his own pettiness.

Mrs. Newberry walks downstairs after Newberry calls for her. She sees Arthur standing behind her husband and smiles wide, white teeth shining as her eyes track Arthur up and down in an already too familiar path. “Mr. Underhill,” she says, voice pleased. “It’s so lovely to see you again.”

“And you, ma’am.” Arthur takes her hand in his when she offers it, placing a kiss against the top. 

“Are you here for lunch, too?” she asks.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Please, call me Frannie,” she says and turns to lead both Arthur and her husband into the dining room. Several servants walk in as soon as they’re seated and present their lunch. Arthur eats the food, pleased enough with something warm and fresh.

Mrs. Newberry and the Mayor chat about things Arthur has no use for through most of the meal, so he instead focuses on the food while keeping one ear open should he be expected to respond. Mostly, the conversation revolves around the clothing Mrs. Newberry would like to order, and the Mayor making encouraging noises. “Yes, my dear. If you look your best, then it reflects well upon me to the rest of the town.” The man is so in love with himself he’d’ve surely been both bride and groom at his wedding if only he could’ve fit in the dress. Arthur has to cover an undignified snort of amusement at the thought.

He tries to feign engagement in the rest of the conversation after that until the Mayor is called away for a business matter. Arthur rises to his feet meaning to leave with him but is ushered to stay by the Mayor. “I beg you finish your lunch, sir,” he says. “Mrs. Newberry will be most pleased for the company, I’m sure.” He rushes out of the house with a kiss to her cheek.

Arthur sits there in the silence, lips pursed in an awkward smile as Mrs. Newberry looks back at him. She rests an elbow on the table and props her face in the palm of her hand. “You are quite handsome, Mr. Underhill,” she says. “Why ever would you leave New York society to come all the way out here?”

“Well, I...” Arthur pauses as he tries to come up with a suitable answer. “The adventure of somewhere new appealed to me,” he says, awkwardly. “I’ve never been this far west.”

“Is that so?” Mrs. Newberry asks. “City life too boring for you?” She laughs like he’s said something funny. He smiles what he hopes looks kind and inquisitive rather than any of the myriad negative things going through his mind. “Mr. Underhill,” she leans forward and licks her lips, her eyes locked to Arthur’s. “Would you care to go upstairs," she pauses, then continues with a pointed drop to her voice, " for a _tour_ of the rest of the house?”

Arthur sits there, momentarily stunned, unsure how to proceed. He mentally shakes himself and sets his spoon down. “I do apologize, Mrs. Newberry, but I’m afraid I must get back to work.” He stands from his seat and having no clue how to end the encounter _bows_ slightly, feeling like an idiot, then turns to leave.

“It’s Frannie,” he hears Mrs. Newberry laugh from the table behind him as he heads toward the front door.

Arthur walks to the bank quickly, aching to loosen the tie at his throat so he can breathe just a little better, desperate to free himself of these clothes, the people, and ride out on the first horse he can find. But instead, he lets himself inside the bank with the key given to him by Mayor Newberry. He heads to Mr. Underhill’s private office tucked near the back and sits down behind the desk, his eyes unfocused on the wide expanse of dark wood, wishing hard that the week will go by quickly. Robbing, killing, that’s what he knows. Avoiding the flirtatious wives of Mayors was not a realm he was familiar or comfortable with at all. He sits there at the desk until the front door chimes the entrance of a client, and with a roll of his eyes at that word, he walks out with a fake smile plastered to his face.

That night he sits down at the table in Mr. Underhill’s dining room and writes his first letter to Dutch. He sits smoking through two cigarettes as he stares blankly at the paper, trying to come up with the best way to write what he wants and needs to say in a way that won’t draw too much attention should it fall into someone else’s hands.

_Dear Pa,_

_Have arrived in Ridgedale. The Mayor is an interesting feller, to say the least. I understand now how it is you got so much information out of someone so willing to speak of himself and his achievements. His wife is certainly a character unto herself and may be a problem before all is said and done._

_I miss home and hope that I can return sooner rather than later. Do keep me updated on the goings on within the family, especially any plans for the future._

_Your son,  
Mr. Underhill_

Arthur seals the letter to post first thing in the morning, addressing it to one of Dutch’s aliases. He strips down to his union suit again and gets ready for bed.

  


* * *

  


The next couple days pass by much the same with Arthur stumbling his way through how to run a bank while he and the Mayor both wait impatiently for the arrival of the Smith family, although for very different reasons. Newberry again speaks at length during lunch that day about the Smith family’s fortune, dwindled since the war, but still most impressive. Arthur feels a gleeful sort of rage deep inside as Newberry yammers on, more than capable of reading between the lines about what being on the losing side of the war meant, happy in the knowledge that the money won’t be theirs for much longer. But outwardly he smiles and nods, encouraging Newberry to fill what would be silence if not for his own voice.

He’s called away for business again on the fourth day, leaving Arthur alone with Mrs. Newberry. She sits there smiling at Arthur while he eats his food, some weird French concoction he could never remember or pronounce, and she seems to delight in the fact that he doesn’t have a clue what to say to her.

“You have a peculiar way of dressing, Mr. Underhill,” she finally breaks the awkward silence, noting his outfit of the day. He’d caved that morning and wore the breeches, the socks fastened at his calves, and stupid little buckles on the too-small shoes. “Do all gentlemen in New York dress as you do?”

“No, ma’am. I suppose it is my own special sense of fashion.” He smiles vaguely, and while she might not be aware, Arthur can hear the sarcasm dripping from his voice. 

“Well, it’s quite lovely.” She stands from the table and walks around the edge of the table, trailing a finger along the surface. She stands next to Arthur where he sits, then places a hand on his shoulder, caressing against the fabric of Underhill’s jacket. “It always looks so soft,” she murmurs.

Arthur clears his throat and avoids her eyes. “Thank you, Mrs. Newberry.” 

“How many times must I ask you to call me Frannie?” she asks as she shifts her hand to run a fingertip down the length of his cravat. She pulls her hand back quickly as the front door opens and Newberry barges back inside the house muttering angrily to himself.

“Mrs. Newberry,” he calls out loud. He turns the corner and stops as he sees her and Arthur. “Oh, Mr. Underhill, I wasn’t aware you were still here.” 

Arthur immediately stands, sensing the implicit order to leave, and is more than happy to take a convenient excuse to escape. “I was just on my way.” He turns to Mrs. Newberry, “Thank you for lunch, ma’am,” he says, and bows. 

She smiles at him, warm and knowing. “You’re welcome anytime. Oh, and expect me at the bank tomorrow. I need to make a withdrawal.” She turns toward her husband and follows him out of the room.

“A withdrawal?” he asks her as they walk toward the stairs and Arthur turns for the front door for a hasty escape.

“Yes, for that dress I told you about.”

“Oh, right—” Arthur shuts the door on the conversation and heads back to the bank for the afternoon.

  


* * *

  


Arthur wakes up the following morning with his back aching, his muscles protesting against having to stand ramrod straight like a supposedly proper gentleman for yet another day in what’s been a very long week in Ridgedale. He heads to the bank with barely a moment’s peace to appreciate the admittedly beautiful view down the main road in town. The colorful leaves on the maple trees lining the cobblestone road that paint a picturesque landscape. Arthur turns away and heads inside the bank for another day. 

He observes Newberry skittering about all around town through the windows while he helps clients, and it amps up the tension under his skin. Newberry doesn’t stop over at the bank to invite Arthur to lunch that day, which is equal parts a relief and alarming. Arthur won’t have to slither his way free from whatever Mrs. Newberry wants from him, but the change in routine drums the worry just that little bit harder. 

He stops by the local saloon for lunch instead, eats his way quickly through a bowl of stew that has him longing to get back to the gang. If luck is on his side, Newberry will stop by the bank in the afternoon and all his fretting will be over nothing. Soon this will all be over and he can get back to his real life, as messy as it is. Back to nature, the gang, and maybe they can head somewhere warmer for the winter. He shifts uncomfortably in the chair, the day’s outfit too much lace and still too stuffy even as the weather grows colder by the day. He leaves with a wave to the bartender and a thought of stopping by again after work for a drink or five. His fingers itch for a gun all day, something to take the edge off the twisted feeling that doing _nothing_ stirs up. Arthur ain’t ever been good at waiting, always more a man of action, and this past week has been a real test of his patience.

It’s nearly closing time when the wrong Newberry steps inside the door of the bank. “Mrs. Newberry,” he greets her, biting back the wariness he feels. He stands solidly behind the front desk.

She smiles at him, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Frannie,” she corrects. She sighs and walks over to stand before the counter. “How old are you, Mr. Underhill?”

“Uhh,” he says stupidly. His brain freezes as he tries to think about how old the _real_ Mr. Underhill may be rather than just saying his own age or thereabouts.

She sighs again. “Oh, I guess it doesn’t matter. You know I’m only twenty-two?” she asks. “Twenty-two and married to the Mayor of a growing town. I should be happy, right?”

He stares at her, unsure what to say.

“He’s old, Mr. Underhill,” she sighs. She fiddles with the tip of one gloved finger then looks back up at Arthur. “He’s old and I…” She cuts herself off and begins pacing in front of the desk. “A woman has needs, Mr. Underhill. My husband wished to marry me because of the connections marrying into my family afforded him. I am nothing more than a possession on his arm to trot out at parties so he can make a good impression.” She stops and stares at him where he stands frozen behind the desk, then continues pacing. “My family connections are what initially convinced the Smiths to move here, did you know? Mr. Smith was a friend of my father’s as children. I never did much care for him, and his son was always nasty to me as a child, so I’m not unhappy if they’ve changed their minds even if my husband thinks it’s the end of the world.” She turns toward Arthur, her eyes imploring. 

He hides the wince her words invoke, realizing that the Smiths apparently have had a change of heart, and tries to focus on the problem standing right before him instead. And Arthur does feel a twinge of pity for her. A loveless marriage with a selfish man, one who collects people as trinkets designed only to make him appear at his best with no concern for their own feelings. How he fools so many into buying his lies, Arthur understands less with each passing day. But he doesn’t know what to say to any of it, so he remains silent, only looks back at Mrs. Newberry as she walks forward, leans over the top of the desk, and tilts her face close into his.

“A woman has needs,” she repeats, her voice low and intimate. “So you understand why I might be interested in you, Mr. Underhill?” 

Arthur’s face remains expressionless as she dips a finger to swirl on the top of his hand.

“I—” She stops herself at the chime of the entrance bell, retreating a respectable distance as a man walks through the door. “Thank you for your help, Mr. Underhill,” she says, voice light and airy, fake cheerfulness laced over each word.

She turns and walks away. “Good afternoon, Mr. Weathers,” she says to the man who entered as he rushes to hold the door open for her. 

“Afternoon, Mrs. Newberry,” he greets. As soon as she’s through, he heads toward Arthur, who stands there muddling over the news that the take they’re all hoping for may not show up after all.

He decides to hell with acting the part of Mr. Underhill and stops by the saloon as soon as the bank closes after all. One drink turns into two turns into three and then he loses count, stumbling home sometime after midnight. The only relief that of knowing he avoided getting into a bar brawl even if it would’ve helped him burn off some restless energy. He stumbles around inside Underhill’s house, barely taking the time to undress. He needs to write another letter to Dutch, but it would be a drunken scribble if he tried, so he flops down on his back on top of the bed.

He glowers up at the ceiling for ages, thinking about nothing until the liquor mostly wears off and the room stops spinning as much. But then he’s on his way to sober, feeling morose, and although he’d never admit it to anyone, he misses everybody back at camp. It’s been years since he was last gone for quite so long. Even if it’s only going on a week, that’s still longer than he usually likes to stay away these days. Not since...well. Things best not thinking about and then all the way back to when he’d visit Mary any chance he got. He turns onto his side trying to rid himself of thoughts of past wrongs and mistakes and how desperately he wishes things could've been different.

Now he’s stuck in this stupid town with a Mayor hellbent on bringing _civilization_ out west. He misses his own cot, even if this bed is more comfortable. The wilderness, and Dutch and Hosea. Marston and whatever the hell they got going on between them now.

He eventually falls asleep as his mind races down every worst-case scenario it can draw up regarding this job, his eyes sore, bound to be a painful, dry mess when he opens them come morning.

  


* * *

  


The next day he regrets drinking as much as he knew he would the night before, angry at having to get up and put on Underhill’s clothes with a pounding headache. He decides _to hell with choice_ and picks almost the same outfit from the day of his arrival. The white shirt with the billowing sleeves, but rather than the ruffled monstrosity around his neck he chooses a simple cravat tucked into the top few buttons of the shirt, a pin secured through it. He forgoes the jacket, not in the mood to feel so constricted all day long. He steps into the pants, fastens on the stupid little short suspenders, and then stuffs his feet into the black buttoned shoes. He gets to the bank a little before opening hours and sits in the office for a while, his head rested on his folded arms as he wills away the throbbing behind his eyes. As soon as the clock strikes nine, he stands up and heads over to unlock the door. 

Blessedly, no one shows up until Mrs. Newberry walks in at half-past eleven. He plasters the fakest smile he’s felt on his face since he was thrust into this whole mess, but it seems to please her all the same.

“Mr. Underhill,” she greets him. “I forgot during our conversation yesterday,” she says, her voice dipping on the word _conversation_ , “That I was meant to make a withdrawal from my husband’s account.”

“Right,” he says. “Of course.” He nods as she relays her information and he helps her withdraw an absurd amount of money for _one dress_. Hoping that’s that, he again smiles at her, but shuts his eyes with a bitten off sigh as her body language immediately changes to something much more flirtatious. She leans on top of the counter, her head tilted in close to Arthur’s as her fingertip draws thoughtless circles on the top and inch closer and closer to Arthur’s hand with every little swirl of her finger.

“Have you given thought to what I said?” she asks, her voice low. She leans in closer, her breath a whisper against Arthur’s lips. He stares down at her, too close for comfort and the danger of discovery, one which would surely ruin the job, pulsing like an alarm in his ears. He feels like he’s on a tightrope he doesn’t know if he can successfully walk across. 

He stands there unmoving when she boldly brushes her lips against his, a soft barely-there nothing of a kiss like she’s testing the water before diving in. Their lips part and she smiles against him before leaning in again but then yanks back quickly when the door chimes above the bank entrance. And as much as he hates working here, he feels a complicated sense of relief that Mrs. Newberry has been thwarted not once, but twice, the last two days she’s been alone with him.

That relief is a cold comfort when caught in such a compromising predicament though and Arthur’s eyes dart to the door, knowing his face looks panicked in the moment, and then widen as John walks into the bank. John grins at him over Mrs. Newberry’s shoulder then turns to take a seat in one of the plush looking chairs to wait.

She huffs, irritated, her expression one of frustration when she looks up into Arthur’s eyes. She plasters on the smile Arthur has learned is entirely fake. “Thank you, Mr. Underhill. I appreciate your help with this business matter for my husband.” 

Arthur nearly cringes at how poorly she delivers her lie. If it were anyone but John sitting there he’d be nervous that something was obvious, but as it is, he just swings a glance toward him and has to fight back a snarky comment when John smirks like he’s having a grand time watching Arthur fend off the misguided attentions of a lady while trussed up like a prize chicken.

Mrs. Newberry, with what she must think is a sly glance toward John out of the corner of her eye, angles her head in closer to Arthur, her lips as close to Arthur’s ear as propriety will allow. “I promise I can be very discreet, Mr. Underhill,” she whispers. Then with a flutter, she turns and walks out the door, leaving only Arthur and John inside.

“The hell are you doing here?” Arthur asks immediately after the door clicks shut. “Does Dutch know you’re here? And what the _hell_ are you wearing?” John laughs as he stands from the chair, extending his arms out while he turns in a circle to show off his getup, looking less like an outlaw and more like a stuffy businessman on his way to bribe politicians of dubious moral standing, top hat and all. It ain’t anywhere near as awful as Arthur’s clothes, but it don’t fit him right at all, throws Arthur for a loop. 

“Dutch said I needed to blend in, so we acquired a feller’s suit yesterday. Had twenty dollars on him, too. So not too bad considering what a jerk he was. Some men deserve gettin’ robbed.” 

“Okay,” Arthur says. “Why are _you_ here and not Dutch?”

John puts on an exaggerated pout. “What? You ain’t happy to see me?” He rolls his eyes when Arthur scowls. “Dutch can’t exactly show his face in town, dumbass. The Mayor might recognize him.”

Arthur sighs as he acknowledges the truth of that. “So he sent you?”

John shrugs. “Guess he trusts me to do work more than you seem to,” he holds Arthur’s awkward gaze pointedly. “Now how’s about you take me to your office so I can open myself a shiny new bank account?”

With a nod of his head, Arthur turns to lead John back to the relative privacy of his office so they can discuss business without the prying ears of locals.

“I promise I can be very discreet,” John whispers in his ear as he crowds Arthur into the room.

Arthur, realizing John had definitely heard Mrs. Newberry’s last missive, turns around with an amused groan, and pulls John in by the tie. He tips the stupid looking hat off his head. “She won’t let up,” he laughs, exasperated, then draws John straight down into a kiss, to hell with discretion right now. John being there is making him miss everything that much more, and he grabs a fistful of John’s hair like this is all his fault. 

John moans quietly against his lips, and nudges harder into the kiss, his tongue dipping into Arthur’s mouth and tasting of burned coffee. He pulls back enough to get his bearings of the room, then pushes Arthur up against a nearby wall and Arthur nips at John’s lips as his shoulders collide with wood, his head barely missing a sconce as John presses hard into his body in a hot line, his breath panting through his lips into the kiss. 

Arthur sways his hips forward roughly, hoping to dislodge John enough for leverage to flip them around, but John rides the motion and then leans back in, laughs against his cheek, and presses a strangely sweet kiss against his skin. “You still owe me, you know…” he murmurs, the vibration tickling against Arthur’s lips when he claims them again with his own. He tugs back far enough to hold Arthur’s gaze, a sly little smirk on his face begging to be wiped off, while Arthur desperately tries to think about what he’s referencing.

John huffs, amused, and tilts down to press a row of kisses along Arthur’s throat up to his ear. “I did all them chores,” he whispers, the small gust of air tickling against Arthur’s skin. “Just as you said, and then you up and left to flirt with a married woman.” He bites down on Arthur’s earlobe, tugs on it, then licks up the edge of Arthur’s ear with the tip of his tongue.

Arthur moans deep in his chest at the sensation, the sound barely audible in the room, but enough that John grins all the same.

He pulls back to look at Arthur again, his eyes peering down the length of Arthur’s body and back up to his eyes. “You look good like this,” he says, and tugs on one of the suspenders fastened to the pants high on his waist. He grins as he leans in for another kiss.

Arthur scoffs in disbelief. “The hell I do,” he grumbles against John’s lips, then nips him when he laughs again.

“Alright,” John says, the whisper of a smile on his face. “But it sure feels nice.” He slides his palm down the front of Arthur’s entirely too delicate shirt, his gun callouses catching on the fabric and then swoops further down, his hand cupping against the thick length of Arthur’s cock.

Arthur grunts, his head tipping back against the wall with a too hard thud and he sighs as John kisses along his neck again, light brushes of his lips and tongue so as not to leave any visible marks. He grabs a hold of Arthur’s leg high up around the back of his thigh and pulls forward enough that he can find an angle to fit himself just right for the two of them to rub up against each other.

Arthur winds his hands up into John’s hair either side of his head, yanking on it the way he’s quickly learning gets pleased, soft wounded sounds falling from John’s lips. He uses his hold to lift John’s mouth back up to his own as they move their hips in a thrusting wave, both chasing the electric shocks each time they slide against each other just right.

Arthur’s so lost in the taste of John against his lips, the heat of his body radiating against Arthur, and the dizzying pulse in his cock every time they move together that he swears he hears chimes in his head, moans louder as he bites down hard on John’s lips.

“Hello?” 

John wrenches away from Arthur, a look of panic on his face, and Arthur realizes the chime had been the bell above the goddamn door to the bank. He pushes John away and tries to frantically rearrange himself into something approaching presentable. “Mr. Underhill?” a man asks from the front.

“I’ll be right there!” he calls out. He stares at John panting hard in front of him, confused when John lifts a hand and smears a finger against Arthur’s lip. “What?” Arthur whispers.

John shakes his head, walks backwards a few steps, and rearranges his own clothes, then tries to straighten the mess Arthur had made of his hair.

“Do I look alright?” Arthur asks him, still whispering.

John shrugs. “Well, I don’t think he’ll suppose you was about to come in your fancy clothes with another man in your back office.” He bites his tongue to keep back a laugh when Arthur shoves him. “Come on, we’ll just. Act natural. Pretend I’m a stranger, I guess.” He lifts a hand to smooth down a wisp of Arthur’s hair, straightens the cravat where it’d been loosened from Arthur’s shirt, then walks out the door with Arthur a respectable distance behind him. “Thanks for the help, Mr. Underhill,” John says, his voice cheery and smile too-wide as they walk back out front. 

“Of course,” Arthur calls after him. He greets the man, eying him up for any look of suspicion but finds none. It’s not ‘til Arthur’s closing up for the evening and spots the abandoned top hat on the ground that he realizes they never even got to discussing anything about the plan. “We’re both goddamn idiots,” he mutters. Dutch won’t be happy with no new information, so Arthur sits down at the dining table when he gets to Underhill’s house and writes a letter to post first thing in the morning.

_Dear Pa,_

_Things here have taken a turn for the worse. The Smiths were meant to arrive within the next week, but are apparently having second thoughts, much to Mayor Newberry’s horror. I myself am unsure what this means for me as the prospect of rich families bringing their fortunes to the bank was the entire reason I was_ hired _in the first place._

_If you could lend me some words of advice on how to proceed, I would greatly appreciate it._

_Your son,  
Mr. Underhill_


	3. Chapter 3

The next morning Arthur all but throws on clothes, barely managing to make sure they match or would meet Mr. Underhill’s exacting standards. It’s all too fussy for him. Delicate fabrics, fiddly buttons, and too many accessories that would make shooting a gun near impossible if he were out in the real world. He heads right to the bank after he sends his letter to Dutch, and is greeted by Newberry waiting outside the door.

“Mr. Underhill,” he says, the tone of his voice making it obvious that bad news hasn’t suddenly turned back to good. “If I may have a word.” He gestures to the door, so Arthur unlocks and opens it, then follows in behind Newberry. “I—” Newberry hesitates. “Well, I suppose I don’t know where to begin, but I’ve come to ask you a favor.”

Arthur nods as he directs Newberry to sit in one of the chairs placed around the edge of the room. Newberry takes a seat, removes and begins fiddling with his hat.

“I’m afraid there’s been a bit of a snag with the Smith family’s arrival,” he says, looking down at his fingers picking at the fabric. “You see,” he starts, then stalls.

And Arthur drops the Underhill politeness for a brief moment, desperate for Newberry to get on with his request already. “They’re unsure if they wish to come here after all, yes?” he asks. At Newberry’s startled look, he plasters on a fake smile that still fools Newberry the same as it did his wife the day before. “Mrs. Newberry might have insinuated at some trouble, I simply followed the tracks.”

Newberry nods, his face a little relieved. “Well,” he stutters. “I was wondering if perhaps you might be willing to write to them?” He looks at Arthur’s face and must see something pinched shine through momentarily because he rushes on. “Now I know Yankees usually have no love for Southerners, but they’re sensible folk. If you could tell them of how wonderful Ridgedale is as a place to live, encourage them that it's in their best interest, I would be most grateful. Mrs. Newberry’s father refused to do so, said he didn’t want to get involved.” He looks back down at his hat. “He believes I’m far too biased to make such a grand proclamation to the Smiths myself.”

Not knowing what else to say, Arthur agrees. He promises the letter within the next few days, and Newberry springs to his feet, overly elated about the whole thing in Arthur’s opinion. He almost feels a little bad that he means to rob the poor man’s town blind. But then Newberry opens his mouth again and lets the slime out from within and Arthur remembers _nothing good comes from civilization_. 

Now Arthur just has to figure out what the hell to do about this letter. The only upside to the day is there’s no invitation to lunch where Arthur will have to hold off the increasing advances of Mrs. Newberry.

He writes to Dutch again that night.

_Dear Pa,_

_I know I’ve just posted you a letter, but local events have changed yet again and I must ask you for more advice. The Mayor has requested that I write a letter to the Smith family to assure them that Ridgedale is a fine town to settle their family. I accepted his request, but I am unable to form the thoughts necessary to convince them why it would be a good idea. You’ve always had a way with words, Pa. I was hoping you could help me. Please respond as soon as you can._

_Your son,  
Mr. Underhill_

The next morning, he’s up bright and early to send the letter. He pointedly ignores the snarky comment from the clerk, something about being a mama’s boy desperately missing home. It takes everything Arthur has to pretend he doesn’t hear him and release that pent up tension that’s steadily been growing the longer he’s been stuck in this town.

The bank’s near closing for the day when John walks back in the door. Arthur looks up from the stack of papers he’s filing and puffs a sigh of relief at the sight of him. “Pa?” he asks, keeping to code just in case.

John nods, gesturing to the back office, and follows behind Arthur through the door.

This time is much different than the previous day, both of them keeping strictly to business. John pulls two envelopes out from his satchel and hands them over to Arthur. “Dutch said the top letter is for you, the bottom one is for the Mayor.”

Arthur scrambles to open the first one.

_Dear Fenton,_

_I was dismayed to hear that things have turned out so poorly. I have enclosed the correspondence you requested, and I hope it brings good tidings. For luck, I had_ Underhill Senior write it in his own hand by my dictation. He always did have such beautiful, flowing handwriting. 

_I worry about you and wonder if perhaps it is time for you to return home. I hope to hear from you within the coming days, whether good news or bad, and we can decide where to go from there._

_Love,  
Your Father_

He looks at John as soon as he finishes reading the letter. “His name is _Fenton_?” he laughs with a shake of his head. 

John just shrugs his shoulders with an amused snort so Arthur picks up the other letter and reads over it quickly. There’s _a lot_. Arthur shakes his head to himself again while he reads, disbelief at the idea of anyone buying into it. “Dutch’s really got a way of makin’ shit look like diamonds, don’t he?” he snorts. “He got ol' Fenton to write this for him?”

John nods, “Yeah, he seemed happy to do it. Think he’s ready to get back to civilization, away from camping in the woods with no baths or any of his clothes.” He gestures at the letter. “You gonna get that to the Mayor tonight?” 

Arthur nods. “Yeah, think he’ll wanna send it off as soon as possible.” He sighs, looking back at John. “This’s been more trouble than it’s worth. I really hope we get somethin’ outta the whole mess.”

“Me too,” John says.

  


* * *

  


Arthur heads over to Newberry’s house the second he’s done at the bank. He knocks on the door and stands there fidgeting with the letter in his hand, adjusts the tie that feels like it squeezes tighter and tighter against his throat with each passing day while he waits for someone to answer. 

The door is opened by none other than the lady of the house, Mrs. Newberry, who stands before Arthur looking pleased to see him. 

“Mr. Underhill,” she says. “Do come in.” She pulls the door a little wider for Arthur, leaving only just enough room for him to slip inside, but not enough that he can avoid brushing up against her when he crosses the door’s threshold. He hesitates, but walks inside, turning around to face her when she closes the door behind him. “I’m sorry to bother you, Mrs. Newberry, but is your husband home?”

She leans back against the door and stares at Arthur, eyes tracking along his body with her bottom lip grasped between her teeth, “No.” She glances deliberately below his waist. “I’m afraid he’s off working.” She pushes off the door and takes a step closer to Arthur. “It’s just you and me,” she says, her voice low, and she reaches for Arthur. She takes his tie between her fingers and smooths down the length of it, biting her lip harder to hide a playful grin when she stares up into his eyes through her eyelashes.

Arthur licks his lips, then winces internally as she seems to take that as some kind of encouragement to continue and steps in closer. He takes a fortifying breath. “Do you know where I might find him?” he asks. “I have the letter he requested I send to the Smiths, and I know he wants it as soon as possible.”

Her eyes go flinty. She takes a step back. “You have no interest in me, do you, Mr. Underhill?” she asks. She snorts to herself as she turns away, picks at some invisible lint on the skirt of her dress. “I thought perhaps you were simply worried because of my husband, but I’ve been throwing myself at you and you have yet to take me up on the offer.” She walks past Arthur and deeper into the house, disappearing into a room up the stairs.

Arthur stands there near the front door, awkward and fidgeting uselessly with the letter in his hand, wondering if Mrs. Newberry has walked off for good or not. He’s just decided to turn around and leave, maybe wander around looking for Mayor Newberry in town when she re-enters the hallway above the stairs and walks down to stand in front of Arthur again, an envelope extended from her palm.

“Here,” she says. “This is their address.” 

Arthur takes the envelope from her, looks down at the name and address scrawled across the front then back up to her where she stands pointedly not looking back at him. He feels another tiny twinge of pity for her, all alone and in a loveless marriage with a man as obsessed with himself as the Mayor. He’s just about to thank her for the help but is cut off before he can speak.

“You’ll still have time to post the letter today if you hurry." She reaches around Arthur to open the door behind him. “It’s been nice getting to know you, Mr. Underhill,” she smiles, polite and closed off. “If you do change your mind, you know where to find me.” The door clicks shut as soon as he’s outside.

He stares at it for a moment, then down at the envelope in his hands. With a deep gust of air through his nose, he nods a couple times to himself and turns to rush back over to Underhill’s house. As soon as he’s there he makes his way straight over to the desk for a blank envelope. He tries to mimic Mr. Underhill’s handwriting from the letter the best that he can as he writes down the family’s address, then races off to send it before the post office closes.

He arrives just in time, and for the first time since he put on Mr. Underhill’s suffocating clothes, he feels something like relief.

  


* * *

  


The next few days are both boring and stressful as he waits to find out what happens next. He writes to Dutch the day after he sends off the letter, but then refrains from doing so again until he’s sure he has news to share. The Mayor stops by the bank, eager to thank Arthur for taking the initiative so soon, having received word about it from Mrs. Newberry. Another day passes as he, Dutch, and the whole gang wait on word for whether they should bail or stay the course. Arthur is more than ready to get the hell outta this stupid town, has seen enough of banks for at least the next couple years. 

Newberry shows up in the bank again one morning, a huge smile on his face and copious amounts of gratitude for Arthur, having received word that the Smith family had departed their home the day they posted their own letter to the Mayor. Newberry, in an excited titter, says they're due to arrive by train to nearby Rye and will then hire wagons for the final journey to Ridgedale by mid-week. He invites Arthur to lunch at his house, which is pleasant enough as far as they usually go. Mrs. Newberry seems to have really given up on the idea of a secret tryst with Arthur, which he’s grateful for. He goes home that night, writes off a quick update for Dutch that he’ll post in the morning, and then stares at the ceiling over the bed as his mind wanders.

It’ll be well over the one week he was told this would take by the time the Smiths get here. Way too long for Arthur to be stuck in this shitty town wanting to be grander than it is, dressed in these shitty clothes that feel like a prison. He’s ready to rob the place then get going on elsewhere. Somewhere warmer now winter is on the horizon. Somewhere that looks completely different, that’s far away from anywhere _civilized_.

But it takes three more long, tedious days before the Smiths finally ride into town, an absurd line of wagons carrying both family and what seems like it might be everything they have ever owned down the cobblestone road toward their new home on the outskirts of town. Arthur sees Newberry run out to greet them, overly friendly as he tends to be. He watches through the windows of the bank, rolling his eyes as Newberry flutters around making a nuisance of himself, sucking up the way he does when surrounded by money and power. However dwindled that power may be.

Arthur feels relief deep in his gut now that they’ve finally shown up. He holds off on writing to Dutch that evening, not wanting to send anything until everything is ready for them to make a move. 

The next day, a wagon pulls to a stop in front of the bank. Arthur is in the middle of helping a client withdraw a large sum of money from his account—a wise choice given what will surely happen here over the coming days—when Newberry walks into the bank followed by two men dressed in a way that’s so similar to Mary’s daddy that Arthur feels his stomach drop and has to fight his lips curling in disgust on instinct alone. He finishes the transaction and walks around the counter toward Newberry.

“Mayor Newberry,” he greets. He stands tall as Mr. Underhill instructed him, smoothing a hand down the front of the soft fabric of his clothes, waiting to be introduced to the patriarch of the Smith family.

“Mr. Underhill,” Newberry says, “This is Mr. Wendell Smith and his son, Wendell Smith, Jr.” He gestures to the two men and they all make their pleasantries.

“We were pleased to receive your letter, Mr. Underhill,” Mr. Smith says. “Mayor Newberry has spoken so highly of Ridgedale and all of his ambitions for it that it seemed almost too good to be true. But reading that you too think so highly of this town set our minds at ease.” Arthur has to fight back a roll of his eyes at the near manic glee that comes over Newberry’s face as Mr. Smith speaks. “We really hope we might return our family to its former glory here out west.”

_Pompous ass_ , Arthur thinks, but doesn’t say. He smiles, nodding politely. He puts his very best Mr. Underhill voice to work as he slithers his way into their trust. “Mayor Newberry has told me you wish to keep some of your family’s belongings here, and I want to assure you we will take very good care of them. If I may direct you downstairs, I can give you a tour of our vault so you can see for yourself,” he says, a bright smile plastered wide across his face. 

It’s almost too easy, really. The rich are always so eager to trust a bank with their most valuable possessions. Arthur stands there the entire time, the only person who knows the combinations to each safe. He assures them of the fact with a smile he can feel is too sharp, the only one who knows that as soon as their riches are stored away, they’ll be stolen by one of the most notorious gangs in the country. But luckily, his smile causes no alarm in any other man present, and he turns around and leads the three of them back upstairs, shutting the vault door behind himself. He really will have to give Dutch and Hosea props if they pull this one off after all.

It’s decided that the deposit will happen two days later, giving the Smiths enough time to hire a few guards to protect the delivery from any bandits or thieves who might get lucky and pass them by on the ride over. It takes Arthur everything he has not to laugh.

“All of you simply must come to dinner this evening!” Mayor Newberry proclaims with delight.

  


* * *

  


The whole affair is just as awful as Arthur expected having to be in the company of _civilized society_ would be. He ain't felt so out of place since he was with Mary and failed at every attempt at fitting in no matter how hard he tried for her, always falling short of her expectations of who he should be. Now Arthur stands outside the front door of Newberry's house, bracing himself for an evening of keeping quiet as best he can, not wanting to spoil the robbery when it's finally almost here. 

Arthur’s sure Underhill has never stepped foot on a military base, but that fact apparently hasn’t stopped him from purchasing clothes with an almost militaristic feel, even if done in a uniquely Underhillian way. He's dressed in velvet pants and another white shirt, adorned with more unfortunate lace, but he left off the tie this time, not wanting to feel strangled when he knows good and well already that the night could be an uncomfortable disaster even if he does manage to nod politely and hold his tongue the entire night through. There’s a few missing buttons at the top of the shirt—no doubt done intentionally courtesy of Mr. Underhill and his desire to _scandalize_ —that reveal more skin on his chest than he’s actually comfortable with, but he threw on a white double-breasted cropped jacket he’d found near the bottom of one of the trunks, the lining on the collar and cuffs a soft fur that actually felt quite nice against his skin. The buttons on the jacket ain’t real though, only placed there for decoration because of course they were, and it still leaves his chest a little too exposed. It’s all so ostentatious in its desire to display the wearer and Arthur curls his lip in disgust as he pulls the snug white kid gloves tighter on his hands. 

The outfit has him feeling out of place all evening, much too tight if the vaguely scandalized glances he catches from other party attendees are anything to judge by. Underhill would certainly be pleased by that.

The dinner-time discussions disgust him. All this talk of money and politics, Mrs. Newberry’s father, the Smiths, and Newberry all reminiscing on the golden years in the South and how it all turned sideways after the war. Smith Sr. goes on at length whining about two of the nearby families back home, at war with each other since before the actual war, and now their rivalry was making business near impossible for anyone in a post-war society. Apparently, that was the catalyst for the family deciding to move away and begin anew in Ridgedale, and Newberry uses the discussion as an in to metaphorically genuflect, stroking the Smith family ego in that way only he seems capable. Arthur has to excuse himself at one point, his fist clenched tight and aching to connect with Smith Jr.’s face in particular. 

He walks into the library across the hall and opens one of the doors that leads out onto the wrap-around porch. He leans against the doorframe as he lights a cigarette he stashed in the inner pocket of the jacket, his mind churning over and over in disgust at the thin veneer of civilization present in this monstrous place. All these men who pretend they’re upstanding citizens, the very best that this country has to offer when they’re thieving, robbing, murdering pieces of shit to rival any outlaw.

There’s a crash at the door and Arthur startles, turns around to see Mrs. Newberry walk in the room swaying with a half-empty glass clutched tight in her hand, a shattered bottle at her feet. With a deep sigh of irritation, he walks closer to her and holds out a steadying hand. “Are you alright, Mrs. Newberry?”

She giggles, pats her hand on his chest. “M’fine.” She sways closer and looks up into Arthur’s eyes. “Mr. Underhill,” she whispers. She sighs, and tilts her head to press a kiss to his cheek, then another, followed by another in a line toward his lips.

Arthur turns his head away. “No.”

She rears back suddenly, almost tips over in her dizziness, barely caught by Arthur before she goes down. She shoves him away, her eyes glaring fire at him. “Get off,” she cries. She moves back toward the door as Mayor Newberry’s booming laugh floats in from the lounge.

Arthur feels one last twinge of pity for her and sighs, but before he can say anything she’s gone in an angry flutter. He snuffs out his cigarette on the wallpaper in the room just to be an asshole then drops the end into an expensive looking vase and heads back into the party where Mrs. Newberry is nowhere to be seen.


	4. Chapter 4

The day of the deposit, Arthur wakes early and writes a letter to Dutch to send off at lunch after the Smiths are scheduled to stop by the bank.

_Dear Pa,_

_The Smiths have arrived in Ridgedale safely, to Mayor Newberry’s great relief. I, myself, am very pleased to inform you that they made a deposit at the bank this morning of quite a collection of goods._

_I do hope you’ll be able to visit soon, Pa. Perhaps this Saturday? Everyone will be in bed early that evening for church the next morning, so the street should be nice and quiet. If you can make it, leave your horse across the street from the bank. I live right next door and will meet you outside to let you in._

_Your son,  
Fenton_

The deposit itself happens without issue, an occurrence rare enough that Arthur feels antsy the rest of the day and has to smoke through a pack of cigarettes just to get to sleep. But everything on his end goes off without a hitch and Arthur doesn’t hear a word back before Saturday afternoon so he knows they’re on for that evening.

He’s restless all day, clients getting on his every last nerve, and Mayor Newberry invites him over to lunch with the Smiths where Mrs. Newberry is conspicuously absent. Misguided and clumsy attempts at seducing Arthur into an affair aside, a part of him does wish her well. He closes up the bank that afternoon and heads straight over to Underhill’s home, walks inside, and shuts the door with a decisive click behind himself. He walks into the kitchen and makes himself some coffee, then passes time scribbling in his journal, willing the night to pass by faster. At half-past eleven, he packs up the few supplies that are really _his_ and walks over to Mr. Underhill’s luggage trunks. He pushes aside the piles of clothes until he finds the set of his own alongside the weapons he’d hidden underneath everything. The clothes are all black; shirt, jacket, bandana, and all. He stands, removes Mr. Underhill’s clothes for the last time, and settles himself back into what’s familiar.

He’s finally comfortable for the first time in what feels like forever, tilts his neck side to side in a stretch, and then slings his satchel over his shoulder. After buckling his holster, he checks over his guns, making sure they’re clean and loaded. The very last thing he does is set his father’s hat on top of his head, adjusting the angle just right. As the clock tower strikes midnight, he steps outside the front door into the dark quiet of the streets of Ridgedale to wait. He hides in the shadows, listening intently for the sounds of hoofbeats on cobblestone, and smiles to himself when he hears it. 

Five riders approach and stop across the street from the bank, then dismount and hitch their horses to a post. Arthur steps out of the shadows into the moonlight, whistles quietly, and angles his head toward the bank as soon as they turn toward him. The five men walk quickly to meet Arthur at the front door and Arthur uses Mr. Underhill’s key to let them all in. They slip inside, the door shutting behind them keeping their secret safe. 

“Good to see you, fellers,” Arthur says, a grin on his face and relief washing over him. Relief they’re nearly done, relief he’s getting out of here one way or another. “Why’s he here?” He gestures at Mr. Underhill with a flick of his head.

Dutch grabs a hold of Underhill’s shoulder, pushes him forward and forces him down into one of the chairs dotted around the room. “Mr. Underhill _kindly_ volunteered the idea that we leave him tied up in the bank to be discovered in the morning. Bill, you stand guard.” 

“What?” Bill asks, too loud in the quiet. “Why me? Make Marston babysit.”

“I said you,” Dutch says, his voice tight as he stares Bill down for his insubordination. Dutch turns toward Arthur, dismissing Bill, “Lead the way, Arthur.”

Arthur turns and walks to the back of the bank, three sets of footsteps clicking on the marble floor behind him. They head downstairs toward the vault, and Arthur opens the door, pulls it aside to let Dutch and Hosea step inside first. Arthur walks up to each safe one by one, twisting the dials with the codes only he knows, gleeful with every door that opens and reveals piles of goods inside. It’s the easiest bank robbery he’s ever done, if he ignores the never ending lead up to it.

Now each door stands wide open and he takes a step back.

“Well, boys,” Dutch says. “Let’s get to work.” 

John tosses a bag to Arthur, claps a firm hand to his shoulder, and then each of them takes a safe. They work fast stashing away piles of money, jewels, and other valuables people think are worth storing in the _safety_ of a bank vault. They get a little giddy as their bags grow heavier, the adrenaline rushing as each safe is emptied of its belongings. As soon as they’re done, they turn and walk single-file out of the vault, the doors to each safe still hanging wide open and empty behind them.

Mr. Underhill is still in the chair Dutch left him when they get back to the lobby, his previously pristine clothes filthy and covered in dirt. He looks like a disheveled mess, and his eyes are fixed on their bags as they walk back into the lobby. 

“Tie him up, Bill. Leave him behind the desk there,” Dutch says and indicates to the front counter.

“Wait!” Mr. Underhill exclaims. “It must look real!” He stares between the blank expression on Bill’s face and over to Dutch’s and Hosea’s considering ones. “Hit me,” he says and turns back to Bill. “Just don’t damage any—” 

Bill punches him right in the face, laughing when Mr. Underhill collapses to the ground and lifts a hand to his nose, blood gushing down his face.

“Jesus, Bill,” Arthur says, disgusted.

“What? He said make it real.”

“I think you broke my nose!” Mr. Underhill futilely tries to stem the blood flow. “Oh, this shirt is ruined!” He cries out, dabbing at the blood staining down the length of his clothes and onto the floor.

“You’ll probably have two black eyes come daylight.” Hosea sets his bag down to help Mr. Underhill back to his feet. “You did say to make it look real. Give me your rope, Bill.” He ties Underhill’s hands behind his back, marches him over behind the front desk, and helps him down onto the ground where he ties his legs together. “Thank you for your help,” he grins as he looms over Mr. Underhill then walks his way back around to stand with the group near the bank entrance.

Arthur drops the keys on top of the counter, happy to never see the place ever again. He stares down at Underhill tied up on the floor and smiles cruelly. “I burned all your clothes.”

“What?” Underhill cries out, sounding like he’s about to burst into tears.

Arthur chuckles. “Nah, I’m just messin’ with ya. They’re in your trunks next door.” He grins when John snorts a tiny laugh behind him, and with a tap on the front counter, he turns toward the door.

Dutch stops them all, looking around at each of them with a bag over their shoulders. “Bandanas up,” he says and they all do as told. “It’s been a pleasure,” his eyes smile behind his own bandana. “Now let’s get to the horses as quiet as we can. Get your bags attached and then we ride outta here.” They all nod as Dutch opens the door as quietly as possible. 

Arthur feels a hand on his shoulder and turns. “Proud of you,” Hosea says with a smile, then follows behind Dutch out the door. 

They walk across the road quickly, heads turning this way and that, keeping an eye on their surroundings for any potential threats. As soon as they reach their horses, they tie up the bags and each man climbs up into his saddle as soon as he’s done. 

Arthur pets along his horse’s neck in greeting as Dutch speaks one last time, his voice pitched low in the still night air. “If we get separated, meet up in three days. Two miles north of Rye.” He looks pointedly at Bill.

“I forgot where one time!” Bill growls.

“Twice,” Dutch corrects him. “We ride out by the afternoon with or without you. Somewhere warmer for the winter would be nice.” Dutch kicks his horse into a trot and one by one, each man follows behind the other, riding quiet but for the sound of hooves on stone. They pass by building after building and Arthur feels his heart clench tighter the closer they get to freedom. 

He whips his head to the side at a crash down an alleyway. A man tumbles out, clearly drunk as he sways on his feet, but alert enough to know a row of bandana-wearing men on horseback in the middle of the night can only be up to no good. “Hey!” he shouts. There’s the sound of a gunshot ripping through the dead quiet and Arthur turns around to see the smoke billowing from Dutch’s revolver. 

“Let’s move!” Dutch shouts and they all spur their horses faster as lights start flashing on in the buildings all around them followed by frantic shouting as people are alerted to the trouble.

“Sheriff! Get out here!” Arthur hears a man shout, and he rides faster.

“Shit,” he mutters as gunshots ring out. Bullets start flying in all directions as the van der Linde gang ride out of town, closely followed by the sheriff and his deputies as they mount up and chase hard after them.

They finally get out into open land, spurring their horses to ride faster, their hooves pounding on the ground, dust kicking up beneath them. Arthur can hear shouting coming from everywhere and turns in his saddle to shoot at the seemingly never-ending supply of lawmen like they appear from nowhere as soon as one hits the ground. 

It’s pure chaos. They ride harder into the night, all their horses soon panting from exertion. The sheriff is shouting at his deputies, telling them to _ride harder, ride faster, get them_. Bill’s horse gets too close to Arthur’s and panics, veering back on its legs as Bill tries to regain control. Arthur shoots two bullets into a deputy over Bill’s shoulder, then turns forward in his saddle, pitching his body low to avoid the bullets flying overhead while he reloads his gun, his breath panting hard as his fingers frantically push one bullet after another into each chamber.

Dutch shouts over the riot of bullets. “Split up,” his voice cracks. “Hosea with me. Bill and John with Arthur!” They split off in two directions, deputies following behind both groups with shouted direction from the sheriff. 

Arthur rides on, muttering words of praise to his horse anytime he can catch his breath. He switches out his pistol for his rifle, firing shot after shot over Bill and John’s shoulders where they ride just behind him. A bullet flies by his head and he barely ducks in time, then turns in his saddle to return fire. The officer falls off his saddle before Arthur shoots, a bullet ripping through his skull from John’s gun.

“Keep going,” Arthur shouts as John’s horse jumps over the fallen body on the ground. 

They ride over more hills, the law refusing to give up, and Arthur turns to his left to fire another series of shots then hears a panicked yell behind him. He whips around and catches sight of John’s horse tumbling forward, shot clear through the head, and John crashing and rolling to the ground. 

With an enraged roar, Arthur yanks hard on the reins, turns around as fast as he can, and rides back toward John. He shouts at Bill as he passes by, “Keep riding. Meet in three days!” He pushes his horse faster, firing as many bullets as he can at the deputies now gaining ground much too fast.

“Marston!” he shouts as he approaches his body lying still on the dirt. “John!” He yanks on his horse's reins to pull him to a stop, panic surging in a nauseated swell from his stomach to his throat. More bullets fly over his head and he lifts his gun, shooting until his chambers are empty. “Fuck,” he says, voice ragged. 

John groans and rolls over, half delirious from the impact with the ground and Arthur shouts at him to gain his attention.

“Marston! Get off your ass and on your feet.” He extends his hand down to John. “Come on!”

His voice jolts John into action, adrenaline spurring him up to his feet in a groggy wobble. He looks back at his horse lying dead on the ground, then up into Arthur’s eyes as he runs the few feet over. “What about the take?” John shouts but grabs a tight hold of Arthur’s extended hand for leverage as he climbs up behind Arthur’s saddle.

“We ain’t got time. Leave it.” He feels John wince with a pained grunt, and kicks his boots against his horse to get him moving, the deputies now nearly on top of them. “Start shooting!”

He feels John fumbling behind him. “My arm,” John says, barely audible over all the noise.

“What?” Arthur asks, and frantically turns and shoots at a deputy only a few strides away.

“My arm!” John shouts louder. “I think it’s broken.”

“Fuck!” Arthur exclaims. He fires off another series of shots, then reloads his gun as fast as he can while steering his horse over hills up into the trees ahead. “Shit,” he says under his breath. “Take the reins,” he yells back at John. He whacks his clenched hand against the back of John’s where he’s gripping tight to the front of Arthur’s shirt. 

John lets go and grabs the reins and Arthur turns to aim his gun over John’s shoulder. 

“Turn as I say,” Arthur shouts while reloading his guns again. “Left!” he yells, and John yanks the horse left. Arthur fires bullet after bullet at the onslaught of lawmen. They keep riding into the hills, Arthur shouting directions to John over his shoulder as he fends off the law, the ground behind them littered with bodies.

It feels like forever but has probably been barely any time at all when they finally approach the thicker tree line higher up in the nearby mountain range. With a relieved gust of breath, Arthur turns to face forward in his saddle, grabbing the reins from John’s hand to steer them deeper into the forest. He pulls back to slow his horse so they don’t go careening over an unseen rock or ledge but they keep riding for as long as he feels is safe in the darkness.

An age or maybe five minutes later, Arthur isn’t sure when time pulls and releases when his adrenaline is high, he brings his horse to a stop and listens beyond the gasping of his horse’s breath for the sound of hooves galloping on the ground.

He and John sit there in silence for a few tense minutes until Arthur feels safe dismounting. He walks around the area listening out for any sounds that say they should keep moving but hears nothing. He shivers as he notices the cool night air on his sweaty skin for the first time.

“Okay,” he says to John quietly. John clambers down from the horse, holding his injured arm to his chest.

Arthur walks over to him. “Lemme look at it.” He tries to pull John’s arm away from where it’s clenched in tight but stops the moment John winces in pain. “Alright,” he says, voice soothing. He sighs as he takes in their surroundings by moonlight. “I think we should stay here ‘til dawn, then ride on. I can try and get that wrapped to your chest, but we should get you to a doctor to set it. There was a small town a few hours northeast of Ridgedale on the way to Rye. Hopefully they’ll have someone who can take a look at that, then we won’t be too far away to meet up with everyone.”

John chuckles, wincing as the movement jars his arm. “Never been so relieved you go exploring all the time.”

Arthur huffs, then walks back over to his horse. He rustles around in his saddlebags for one of his shirts and comes up empty. 

“Think Grimshaw packed ‘em,” John says.

Arthur sighs and walks back over to John. “We’ll have to use your shirt then.” He works at getting John’s torn and tattered jacket off with as little pain as possible, tosses it forgotten to the ground as soon as it's free, and pushes the suspenders off John’s shoulders. He immediately starts unbuttoning the front of his shirt, the two of them working together to get John’s good arm out of the sleeve, and Arthur pulls his bad arm free as gently as he can, mindful anytime John winces. He wraps the waist of the shirt around John’s broken arm in a snug hold then ties the arms of the shirt together over his shoulder and around his back in a makeshift sling. “Feel okay?” 

“S’fucking cold,” John says.

Arthur snorts, but takes off his own jacket and sets it around John’s shoulders. He turns and walks over to his horse again, and after feeding him a few bits of hay, he pulls the bedroll off the saddle and drops it on the ground. He gets down on his hands and knees and unfurls it completely open and flat on the grass, then sits on top, kicking his legs out in front of him. “Come on,” he says and pats the empty space next to himself. “No fire,” he decides. He tilts his head back and looks up through the trees with a tired, heavy sigh. “Don’t know how close they are.” 

John nods, and gingerly sits down. “Sorry,” he mumbles. 

Arthur rolls his head on his shoulder to look over at him. “For what?”

“Lost my bag,” John says, his chin tilted toward his chest. Then he snorts, unamused. “And everything else.”

“Hell, John. Weren’t your fault your horse got shot,” he pats his hand on John’s knee. “Lucky you ain’t get killed, too. Now get some sleep. I’ll keep watch.” He shifts off the bedroll onto the cold grass so John has room to climb inside.

A few minutes pass and then there’s the sound of John squirming inside the bedroll, his breath hissed in through his teeth when it shifts his arm painfully.

“The hell are you doing?” Arthur whispers. “Quit it. Try and get some sleep.” He rolls his eyes when he hears John sigh and shift some more, clearly restless and uncomfortable.

“You still owe me, y’know,” John mumbles under his breath.

Arthur tilts his head to look at him, confused. “What?”

John sighs again like he’s annoyed, then hefts himself up into a sitting position, struggling while trying to restrict the movement of his broken arm. He gets up to his knees, kicking off the bedroll, and knee-walks closer to Arthur. He hovers there for a moment and then climbs himself right into Arthur’s lap, his knees spread wide on the ground along the outside of Arthur’s legs where he sits cross-legged.

Arthur gets the picture real fast at that, rolling his eyes with a quiet laugh. But he places his hands on either side of John’s waist to steady him, fingers curving around his side. “Is that so?” Arthur asks, his voice a quiet rumble. He drums his fingertips on the warm skin of John’s back underneath Arthur’s jacket.

John nods and shifts to get more comfortable where he’s seated, looking distracted, visibly favoring his sore, broken arm.

“Are you even up for this?” Arthur asks, doubtful.

John scowls, his eyes barely visible in the sliver of moon. He curls a lip, annoyed at the question, and shifts around to find a good angle. He rolls his hips forward into Arthur, the clear line of his hardening cock nudging into him like a challenge.

Heat pools in Arthur’s belly, his heart picking up pace to pound a staccato rhythm in his chest, somehow still surprised every time John comes to him for this, even months later. So eager and demanding in equal measure, and Arthur can’t help but respond in kind. He licks his lips, ”Well, alright then,” his voice a low rumble, quiet in the cold darkness. 

He lowers his hands for a quick grasp of John’s hips, then lets go, leaning back to give John more room to move as he pleases perched in Arthur’s lap. He sets his hands into the cold grass behind himself, his fingers digging into the earth for balance and watches John chase his own pleasure.

He’s got his eyes clenched shut, brow furrowed like he can’t decide if he’s enjoying it or not and Arthur huffs a short breath of laughter. He leans up again, scrapes his teeth down the side of John’s jaw, and smiles when that elicits a tiny shiver. “Relax,” he murmurs. He lifts one hand up from the grass to take a hold of John’s hip, pulling him in tighter against Arthur for a new angle, then spurs him on to keep rolling his hips.

“Mmm,” Arthur says, his voice quiet where he’s still pressed in close to John’s ear. “See?” He leans back to give John a little more room again. “That’s already better.”

John snorts, “Shut the hell up," and reaches his good hand up to grasp tight at Arthur’s shoulder for leverage to roll his hips faster. “Christ, I don’t know how you do it,” he grits through his teeth with a hissing breath at one particularly sharp sensation.

“Do what?”

John bites his lip and rolls his hips in several tight little thrusts against Arthur. He licks his lips thoughtlessly, “Swear you go weeks without gettin’ off sometimes,” he mumbles. “I go more than a day and I feel like I’ll die.” He tips his head back with a gasping breath.

“You keepin’ track of when I come?” Arthur asks, voice teasing. He smooths his hand along John’s skin from hip up to rest in the crook of his neck, accidentally tipping his jacket off John’s shoulders to pool in a heap around Arthur’s knees.

“Shut the hell up,” John laughs again, shivering at the shock of cold air on his skin.

“It ain’t that I don’t like gettin’ off, you know I do,” Arthur murmurs. He rolls his hips, his own hard cock brushing in a tantalizing tease against John’s. “Sometimes I just like watchin’, let you use me how you want.” He moves his fingers into the tangled mess of hair at the base of John’s neck, still sweaty from their mad dash out of Ridgedale and tugs on the hair wrapped around his fingers, grins when it gets him another shiver. “Cold?” he asks, teasing with another small pull of hair. He chuckles when John ignores his taunting with nothing but a roll of his eyes and a hard thrust of his hips.

Arthur’s hands soon grow restless, taking hold of John’s hips with his fingers gripped tight into skin, encouraging. Then he moves one hand in a sweeping caress against hot skin, up his chest through the sparse hair, and rests his palm over John’s heart just to feel the erratic thumping rhythm against his palm. He teases a nipple with a whirl of his thumb and slips his fingers back into the hair at the base of John’s head. He tugs, faint smile on his lips when John moans and leans in to lick his way into Arthur’s mouth. He’s messy with it, his desperation panted out against Arthur’s cheek in a hot gust of air, and Arthur loves it. Feels relief and something approaching comfort for the first time in weeks.

John jolts, wincing and pulling back from Arthur when a thrust of his hips knocks his broken arm into Arthur’s chest. His eyes pop open to glare down at Arthur like he’s to blame.

“Alright?” Arthur asks. 

John doesn’t answer, just grips his fingers tight, his nails biting into the skin of Arthur’s shoulder through his shirt. His gaze goes hazy, all his attention focused on riding through the pain to an orgasm.

Arthur drops his hand back down to John’s waist, sliding it in a soothing sweep like he calms his horse. “What do you need?” he asks, voice low. He glances down to the hard outline of John’s cock straining against the fly of his pants, no doubt aching, throbbing in the tight confines, and desperate to be freed. He could do it. Take John in the palm of his hand and help him along. Pull him off fast, feel the splash of come on his skin. He swallows hard, looks up instead, back to John’s face where his teeth are gnawing at the inside of his cheek, all his focus on the press of his cock into the unyielding line of Arthur’s body. He pulls tight on John’s hip to nudge him in as close as he can get, watching as John grows visibly more frustrated. “John?”

With an unhappy groan, John flops his forehead down on Arthur’s shoulder. “Fuck,” he groans, and his body tenses up against Arthur’s when his arm presses in too hard. He rears back. “Fucking arm,” he says, his teeth gritted through the lance of pain.

Arthur huffs but runs another soothing sweep up and down John’s skin. “You wanna keep trying?” he asks. He pulls John’s hips in tight against his own, once, twice, staring up into John’s face for a reaction, then stops when John shakes his head with a pained sound.

“Come on, then,” he murmurs, then picks up his fallen jacket and wraps it back around John’s shoulders. “You can claim what you’re owed later, yeah?” He grins when John rolls his eyes in response, the whisper of a smile on his lips. “You wanna take a minute to calm down?”

John shakes his head again. “Won’t be able to if I sit here,” he mumbles.

”Well, alright,” Arthur laughs. “You should get some sleep then ‘cause the ride tomorrow ain’t gonna be fun for you. Especially if you’re already hurtin’ this bad.” He nudges John out of his lap. 

John sighs, but doesn’t argue as he knee-walks back over to the bedroll. He takes his time lowering himself back down, mindful not to jostle his arm any more than he already had. 

Arthur pulls his journal out to write by the dim moonlight but gives up after only a few minutes of hopeless squinting at paper he can’t really see well enough to write on, feeling restless and unsatisfied. He stuffs it back in his satchel and leans back with his hands on the grass, stretching his legs out in front of him and breathes out into the chill of night, already bored as anything.

Not two minutes later, John shifts in the bedroll, and sighs. “You’re an idiot.”

“Excuse me?” Arthur asks, voice gruff, unsure whether to be annoyed or not.

“You’re dumb. Keep movin’ around and sighing like you’re pissed,” John says. “So just come over here.” 

Arthur shakes his head, dismissive. “I gotta keep watch.”

“So keep watch while you keep me warm. It’s too fuckin’ cold here.”

Arthur sighs. But John ain’t wrong, he is pretty cold, so he doesn’t argue any further. Still, he can’t let John know he gave in so easily. “Ain’t that cold,” he grouses just to be contradictory. He crawls over the few feet and hovers outside of the bedroll, hesitant to get in alongside John in the too-tight confines. “We can’t both fit in there. Least ways, not with your broken arm.”

John rolls his eyes and slings the top back. “Fine. We’ll sleep on the canvas.” He stares Arthur down expecting another argument then shifts off the bedroll, climbing underneath instead. He holds the edge up for Arthur to settle in on John’s good side. 

Arthur yawns, settling on his back, exhausted from the adrenaline crash after the intense ride out from Ridgedale, but refuses to sleep so he can keep an eye out for any lawmen.

  


* * *

  


It’s warm against Arthur’s front, like he’s cozied up in front of a fireplace, waves of comforting heat against his skin. He nudges in harder, desperate to escape the whip of cold air against his back. He tucks his nose into the warmth near his cheek, half-asleep and groggy with it, stuck in that place between dreaming and awake. He shifts his hips on the hard ground underneath his body and moans when the movement presses his morning hard-on into a long line of blazing heat. 

It’s the sound of his own voice, the moan quiet in his throat but loud in his ears, that wakes him. He jerks back in the tight space underneath the bedroll. “Shit,” he mutters, and lifts his head to see the sun barely peeking through the trees as it surfaces on the horizon. He squints, his eyes longing to close again and shut out that itchy, fuzzy feeling that comes with waking up before you really want. He humors giving in to the temptation—the _just for a second_ —but knows he could so easily fall back asleep for a good few hours more so resists giving in. He turns instead to further take in his surroundings, realizing now why his front is so god damn warm, with the way he’s wrapped himself around John’s body, his leg thrown over John’s hip and his arm splayed over half his chest and resting dangerously close to John’s broken arm.

“S’wrong?” John mumbles, his voice thick in the haziness of sleep. He curls himself tighter to Arthur like he means to shift onto his side to get closer inside the little cocoon of warmth, then winces when it jars his broken arm a few shades wrong. His eyes pop open and he tilts a bleary look at Arthur then winks one eye shut like Arthur’s blurry and out of focus.

“Nothin’,” Arthur says. “Fell asleep like an idiot.” He shifts onto his back, accidentally pulling the blanket with him.

John groans unhappily and tries to yank it back into place but it won’t budge from where it’s lodged under Arthur’s shoulder and hip. “Cold,” he whines.

Arthur snorts, but moves back against John’s side, biting off a gasp when his cock brushes against John’s hip again and he’s reminded of what woke him in the first place. He valiantly ignores it in favor of tucking the blanket around John’s shoulder, mindful of his arm while he takes in the mottled bruises surfacing on his skin all over his side. He shifts around to get comfortable, making sure he doesn’t dislodge the blanket again.

“You rubbin’ off on me in your sleep, Morgan?” John asks him, a broad smile on his lips broken by a wide yawn. “Think I might feel taken advantage of.”

Arthur scoffs. “I’d rub off on Uncle in my sleep if he burned as hot as you do.” 

John grimaces, nose crinkled in disgust, and Arthur huffs a laugh. “Yeah, wasn’t thinkin’ before I put that out there.”

“Well, c’mon then.” He’s got that determined look in his eye like he’s staring down the barrel of a gun, but then it’s broken by another comically wide yawn.

“C’mon what?” Arthur asks, feigning confusion just to be a dick.

John wipes the back of his good wrist against his eye to rub out the sleep then lowers his hand in the tight space between them to awkwardly press the back of his knuckles against the hard line of Arthur’s cock where it’s still nudged up against his hip.

“Come on,” he says again and pushes his knuckles in a little harder. 

Arthur can’t help the small gasp he sucks in through his nose, his cock already so hard for who knows how long. His hips jolt against John’s hand and he grunts, the sound buried deep in his throat. He lets himself give in for a few hasty, tight thrusts of his hips then stops suddenly, ignoring John’s muttered sound of protest.

He lifts the edge of the blanket to slip his arm into the heat within and lets his hand drift down John’s warm skin to rest against the hard length in John’s pants instead. He squeezes, “I still owe you, yeah?” he teases, grinning when John hisses. He glances up to see John already staring back, his eyes still puffy from sleep. John thrusts his hips up against Arthur’s hand but winces again, tensing up in pain over his broken arm. “You’re hopeless, ain’t ya?” Arthur chuckles and works to undo enough buttons on John’s pants so he can get John’s cock out, then wraps his fingers around the length, stroking hard and fast and bypassing any teasing build-up. He laughs again when John whines, overwhelmed by the sudden pace and squirming deliciously while his panting breath fogs up in the chilly morning air.

Arthur shifts in closer to thrust his own neglected cock against John a few times just to take the edge off, his head tilting down to rest in the crook of John’s neck as he shivers and bites deep into his lower lip.

He moves fast then, releasing John’s cock—much to John's vocalized displeasure—to make quick work of his own button fly then rises up to his knees. He straddles John’s legs and leans on his free hand placed on the ground next to John’s head for balance.

John groans, a sudden loud and unhappy sound. “S’cold,” he whines, and yanks at the bedroll where it had stuck around Arthur’s shoulders, exposing John’s chest to the cold air.

“Quit your whinin’,” Arthur laughs and slings the blanket down on top of John where it lands in a puddle mostly on his face. He wraps his hand around his own cock, grunting at the shock of pleasure as he strokes a few times into the tight circle of his fist. He grins, a mocking tilt to his lips, when John pulls the blanket free.

“My dick is still cold,” John mutters but thrusts his hips up to brush his cock against the back of Arthur’s hand.

Arthur groans through a dismayed laugh and pulls his hand away with a shake of his head. He hovers there perched in John's lap for a few more moments trying to catch his breath then flops back down on his back on the ground next to John. “Jesus.”

“What?” John asks, his voice shocked at the sudden shift. “Why’re you stopping?” He moves to awkwardly grab at Arthur’s cock and glares when his hand is batted away.

“Nah, mood’s ruined, you cold dicked baby,” Arthur laughs again, and reaches down to redo the buttons on his pants. “Now come on, we oughta get goin’.” He heaves himself up, walks over to his horse, and pets along his flank, pointedly ignoring John when he starts jerking off with his unbroken arm.

“Never even got to have sex with you in all them clothes,” John groans, frustrated on the ground behind him, his hand moving in a halfhearted stroke along his cock. “Wanted to feel all that soft fabric on my skin.”

Arthur snorts and turns around to stare down at him. “I’ll buy you a nice tie, how ‘bout that?” He walks over and yanks the bedroll free. 

John glares up at Arthur, then sighs, all disappointment. “Wish I broke my left arm.” He lets go of himself and slings his arm to the side, the picture of dissatisfied misery. “Why’d it have to be my shootin’ arm?” 

“More than just for that though, ain’t it?” Arthur smirks and does a jerk-off gesture in the air. “Now get up so I can get this put away,” he says and holds out the bedroll in his hands.

John sighs, but starts shifting around on the canvas then comes to a stop with another irritated, pained sound. “Damnit.”

“What?”

He sighs again. “Can you help me up? I can’t get the leverage.”

Arthur snorts but drops the bedroll to the ground and helps him get to his feet, mindful of his arm and the sore looking bruising down the length of his torso.

John stares at him. “Can you…” he trails off and gestures to his still open pants with his softening cock hanging out in the cold air. 

Arthur smirks at him, mockery clear on his face.

“Shut it,” John snorts. “Just be nice and help a feller out.”

“Oh, I’m always nice,” Arthur says, sarcastically. But he reaches down and gets John put away and buttoned up all proper. Their eyes connect and he grins as he pats against John’s cock over his pants in a mockery of consolation. “Now come on, let’s get.” He folds up the bedroll and canvas and secures it to his horse. “You in front,” Arthur says and helps John up into the saddle. “So your arm doesn’t knock along my back for hours. We’ll find you a doctor in town, then see about gettin’ you a new horse.”

  


* * *

  


Luck is on their side and they don’t see any law on their journey northeast. They stop once about half-way to relieve themselves behind a tree just off the trail. Arthur has to help John seeing as he’s only got one functioning arm at the moment, but they keep it perfunctory and with minimal teasing, neither one of ‘em wanting to dwell on it. Other than that, it’s a fairly easy ride and they only pass by a few people with curious glances at seeing two men riding one horse, but they otherwise leave them be. 

They move slower than Arthur would like on account of John’s arm and it’s well past noon before they see the town on the horizon. He reaches around John’s uninjured side and grabs a hold of the reins with about an hour left to go when he notices John fading, tired from the ride, and clearly sore but trying to pretend he ain’t. With one hand on the reins, Arthur digs into his satchel with the other, pawing around for a pack of smokes and matches then leans over and tilts his foot up to strike a light on the bottom of his boot. 

“I’m out,” John mutters and has the gall to reach his hand back for Arthur’s satchel. “Gimme one.”

“Uh-uh,” Arthur growls and whacks his hand away. But he’s feelin’ nice so he pulls the cigarette free from his lips after another long, satisfying draw, and holds the tip to John’s lips instead, the two of them sharing the cigarette back and forth. As soon as it’s finished though, John is back to grumpy and failing at hiding it.

“I’m hungry.”

Arthur huffs, trying not to laugh. “I know, me too,” he says and pats at John’s side. “It ain’t much longer to town, then we can scrounge up some food.”

“Fine,” John sighs the frustration of the hungry and grumpy about it, all theatrics that Arthur thinks could easily give Dutch and Hosea a run for their money. “But if I starve you’re responsible.”

Arthur butts his forehead lightly against John’s upper back with a small chuckle, voice muffled in the back of his jacket still slung around John’s otherwise bare shoulders.

By the time they get into town, even the familiarity of their ribbing each other back and forth is clearly not enough to take John’s mind off how sore he is. Arthur decides to forego food for the doctor so they can get his arm set and some medicine for the pain. 

He’s all but forgotten as soon as John’s in the Doc’s chair, and it all takes a good while so Arthur leaves them to it and heads to the General Store across the road. He stocks up on enough food to replenish the supply on his saddlebags so they have something to eat on their ride back to the gang and for wherever they’re off to next. He’s picking up a few packs of cigarettes when Arthur’s eyes catch on a crimson tie hanging off a rack full of clothes nearby. He walks over, already feeling like an idiot for the thoughts he’s thinkin’, but he runs his fingers along the fabric and chews on his lip. It’s soft enough to the touch but much more practical than anything owned by Underhill, and he wonders if it’ll be good enough for John. He wills himself not to blush over the thought of it, feeling like a bit of a dumbass and adds it to his purchases. He stuffs it in his satchel before he’s walked outside the General Store’s door.

As soon as John is finished at the doctor, his arm set and secure with a new sling holding it securely to his chest and some good shit running through his veins, they walk over to the saloon for a hot meal. Arthur gets John seated at a table in the corner away from people and walks up to the bar to put in their food order. They sit there in silence, John even more exhausted and sore now, bone setting never the most fun of endeavors, but he eats his way through two plates of food with no problem. They finish eating and Arthur insists they stay at the town’s inn for the night so John can get some rest in a bed, neither of them having any idea when that will next be possible after they meet up with the gang and set out elsewhere.

They both wake up late the next morning, stopping for another quick meal at the saloon, then walk toward the stable in town so John can pick out a new horse. Arthur takes to one horse over all the others near immediately. She’s a little pricey, but stunning. In Arthur’s estimation, anyway. A dark-coated thoroughbred, strong and proud. She looks like she could be a more than capable workhorse and John seems to like her well enough but chooses her only after flicking a quick glance in Arthur's direction. He picks out the saddle and everything else he needs and the two of them set off to the meet-up point. They pass by a group of kids on the ouskirts of town, their ratty clothes and the desperate hunger in their eyes bringing up memories that Arthur tries his best not to think about if he can help it. He hands over a few handfuls of money from his satchel.

“Dutch won’t be happy you did that,” John says, his voice quiet as they ride side by side further out of town. He won’t look Arthur in the eye.

“What? We give money to people all the time.”

“No,” John says, shaking his head. “We ain’t in a while now.”

Arthur scoffs, but can’t stop thinking about the truth of that for most of the ride. It _has_ been a while since they handed out a cut of what they robbed, but they ain’t exactly been rolling in it themselves neither. If he thinks back though, he knows there’s truth to it and he wonders how John noticed when he never had. He sighs and tries to put it out of his mind, just something else to add to the pile of things it’s best not to dwell on. 

“I’m glad we’re almost outta here,” he says instead as they approach the double plumes of smoke rising in the air that signal the gang’s location. ”I won’t be sorry to never see this place again.”

“Yeah, me neither. I hate the cold.”

Arthur chuckles, nodding his head. “I know you do.” He digs in his satchel for one of the packs of cigarettes he got at the General Store. “Got somethin’ for you,” he says and tosses it gently over to John. They both light up and smoke in an amiable silence as they ride on up to the makeshift camp. “You got a vote for where we head next? I’m hopin’ we’ll be near the ocean.” He grins when John grimaces as he always does at any mention of large bodies of water.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed it. Let me know what you think! And sorry for leaving them hanging. 🙈 Things will be resolved in my next fic, if ya know what I mean. ;P
> 
> [Aldrig](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aldrig/pseuds/Aldrig)/[simping-for-sadie](https://simping-for-sadie.tumblr.com/) drew an interpretation of some the clothing styles used throughout the story. Check it out below! Equal parts hot (that first one, oh mannnn) and hilarious, if I do say so myself. Look at his union suit sticking out! 😂 I love it!
> 
> Oh, and shoutout to anyone who caught the Last of Us quotes! First game only, no spoilers for the second one, don’t worry. 😉
> 
> Note: The whole point of Underhill’s wardrobe choices is basically that he’s a clothes horse/really into fashion and has a lot of disposable income to spend on it. He gets his wardrobe made custom for himself and likes to include pieces that are technically no longer in fashion at the time (early 1890s), but that he appreciates aesthetically. 
> 
> Think...Charles Châtenay and Algernon Wasp sort of, but yet still his own thing. If you're curious for a few of my visual inspirations then you can see them [here](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1X4dI1LLTfTSrq7Xw8_eadL9ZKRKlRYKrHq6U9Iea44M/edit?usp=sharing).


End file.
